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VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 











* 


♦ 





















« 































































VIEWS 

AND VAGABONDS 


BY R. MACAULAY 

w 

AUTHOR OF “THE VALLEY CAPTIVES,” ETC. 


NEW YORK: 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
1912 












\ 











TO 

O. M. W. 

AND 

P. W. 








This kind of attitude is bound up with the idea of progress. 
It comes of taking all the value out of the past and present, in 
order to put it into the future. And then you don't put it 
there ! You can’t ! It evaporates somehow, in the process. 
Where is it then ? Well, I believe it’s always there in life, 
and in every kind of life. It’s there all the time, in all the 
things you condemn. Of course the things really are bad 
that you say are bad. But they’re so good as well. . . . Life 
itself is the interest. . . . And if you leave it out, you leave out 
the only thing that counts. That’s why ideals are so empty ; 
just because, I mean, they don’t exist. 

G. Lowes Dickinson. *A {Modern Symposium. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. PACE 

I THE PEDLARS i 

II THE BUNTERS 22 

III THE ONE AND THE MANY 46 

IV FORTUNE’S WHEEI 59 

V THE LARGE GRASP 80 

VI THE CULT 105 

VII A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR .. .. 121 

VIII THE WAYFARING MAN .. 147 

IX BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 170 

X THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN .. .. 191 

XI MISSIONARIES AND METHODS .. .. 218 

XII FAMILY MATTERS 234 

XIII THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY .. .. 248 

XIV ASHES ON THE WINDS 264 

XV THE NEW LIFE 274 

XVI THE LEGACY 283 

XVII DAISYVILLE 294 



VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


CHAPTER I 

THE PEDLARS 

Benjamin Bunter hammered a red-hot shoe, 
gloriously enveloped in a shower of sparks, bathed 
in ruddy light, a stalwart person of twenty- two in 
a leather apron and rolled up shirt-sleeves. His 
apprentice, who was thirteen, knelt before the fire 
and puffed the bellows ; and both dripped, because 
of their energy and because the forge was hot, and 
the evening warm for June. Benjamin Bunter was 
a very energetic young man ; and he really liked 
making horse-shoes ; it was so interesting. His forge 
was just outside the village of Wattles, on the 
London road, opposite the milestone which said 
London LVII, Cambridge V. Londonwards the 
road ran between broad grassy borders — a beautiful 
riding-road. And on either side of the road, beyond 
the white may hedges, the green fields swelled, golden 
with buttercups, and sweet with clover. The little 
wind that got up with the twilight carried the smell 
of the fields straight to the open forge door. But 
Benjamin Bunter was too busy to notice it much. 

i 

E 


2 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


The shoe was finished and laid by to cool. Ben- 
jamin Bunter straightened himself, threw back his 
square shoulders, and stood to let the evening cool- 
ness fan his hot face. Silhouetted thus against the 
red glow within, he seemed a sturdy person, square- 
built, square-chinned, square-browed, black-haired, 
with something of the grave child about him, and 
if he was two-and- twenty it was all he would be. 

“ Tim,” he said, in his soft, deepish boy’s voice, 
" you can go home now.” 

The apprentice imp shuffled himself into a coat. 
Home wasn’t where one would go, of course, an 
evening like this — but no matter. As he slipped 
out at the door, he was arrested by a sound ; his 
master too was arrested, and both stood listening. 

There was a patter of feet on the London road — 
a light, foot-pace clapping, and with each clap a 
slip-shod chink. 

“ A little moke,” said the imp, " what’s losing a 
shoe.” 

His master nodded, and they listened again. 

“ Two little mokes,” the imp amended. He was 
a bright child. 

“ Quite so,” said Benjamin Bunter ; and they 
went on listening. 

They couldn’t see anything but the glimmer of 
the white road winding through the dusk, with the 
pink glow of the long-set sun over the dim fields to 
the west, and the half of a golden moon swinging 
up -in the green east. " Tumbling on ’er face,” said 
the imp. " It’ll rain to-morrer. Besides, the ants 


THE PEDLARS 


3 


were a-crossin’ the road this afternoon ; a-crossin' 
to and fro they was, like mad 'uns.” That proved 
it ; ants always know. 

Two little red lights came into sight, jogging along 
the road ; it seemed that the two little mokes were 
dragging a highish sort of cart. “ You needn’t stay, 
Tim,” the smith told his apprentice, and the ap- 
prentice vanished into the night. He wasn’t going 
to stay and help shoe a little moke unless he had to. 

The smith watched the red lights jog. When they 
had jogged to within two hundred yards of the forge, 
he could hear voices talking. One said, “ L-look, 
there’s a forge,” and another (it must have been 
another, because it was a key lower, but it had the 
same melancholy softness, and the same stammer) 
said, “ Of course. I’ve been s-seeing it for miles,” 
which was no doubt untrue, and sounded as if they 
had been quarrelling a little. 

Benjamin saw now that it was a sort of small 
gipsy van, such as pedlars travel in, hung round with 
brooms, basket chairs, tin pails, carpet slippers, and 
other useful objects, and drawn, as he had known 
long since, by two little donkeys, one of which was 
dropping a shoe. On the driver’s ledge, with the 
little door open behind them, showing an incredibly 
crowded interior, sat a young man and a girl. Ben- 
jamin could see their faces, how they were as like 
as their voices. Brother and sister, then. 

They drew up at the forge, and said together, 
" Our smaller donkey is losing a shoe,” and climbed 
down on to the road. 


4 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Benjamin lifted the smaller donkey’s near fore- 
foot, and made his examination. He was by nature 
a young man of few words. Herein he differed from 
his customers, who were not like that. They said 
(and they really only stammered a little, after all, 
except when they were getting excited), “ We’re 
on our way to London. How far now ? Oh, there’s 
a milestone. Fifty-seven ; that will take us five 
days. We don’t go fast, you see ; the donkeys 
aren't very strong ; and we make long stops in the 
villages and towns, to sell things. Will you buy a 
pair of carpet slippers, with pink geraniums on them ? 
Or perhaps a clothes-brush ; you must get so much 
dust from the motors here. Or a bucket — or a little 
chair. Have you a little chair to sit in already ? 
No, you haven’t, apparently. It costs three and 
sixpence. But if you’d rather have the slippers . . . 
We want to stay just outside Cambridge to-night ; 
that isn’t far, is it ? Is it a nice place, Cambridge ? 
We don’t know it much.” 

Benjamin Bunter, busy with a little shoe, selected 
this to answer. 

“ Nice ? That’s according to what you want out 
of it, I suppose.” But his own feeling about it 
looked for a moment out of his candid, heavy- 
browed deep blue eyes. He, it seemed, had at one 
time or another got something he wanted out of 
Cambridge. 

The pedlar people didn’t altogether understand. 

" We just want a nice place ... a place we can 
play about in for a little . . . oh, not too respectable, 


THE PEDLARS 


5 


you know. We’ve just been at Ely, and that wasn’t 
very comfortable. The people were rather t-tidy — 
and we aren’t.” 

Benjamin looked at them and perceived that they 
were not. They were not even as tidy as he was. 
He, with his bare grimed arms and open shirt and 
leather apron, and far-set, very honest, grave blue 
eyes, was the self-respecting artisan, the noblest work 
ofheaven. (That was what he believed the self-res- 
pecting artisan to be ; I quote his sentiments, not 
his words, which were few and to the point, and not 
of that sort.) These pedlar people were probably 
not self-respecting ; and their shoes were broken. 
Not that Benjamin Bunter thought less of them on 
that account ; that was perhaps one of the things 
he had got out of Cambridge — indifference to broken 
shoes. Another was the unsurprised acceptance of 
incongruities. Broken shoes, brooms to sell, gentle 
speech — these went, in Benjamin Bunter’s eyes, 
quite naturally together. 

He finished the little shoe, and straightened him- 
self. 

“ That’s done ... You were offering me things 
to buy, weren’t you. The only thing I want is a 
kettle. Have you a kettle ? ” There was this about 
Benjamin Bunter : he invariably knew what he 
wanted, and, more, what he didn’t want. Another 
difference from the pedlars, who wanted everything 
they saw. The more things the better ; that is 
what makes life full and interesting ; perhaps that 
was why the inside of the cart was so very full. So 


6 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


they couldn’t understand the blacksmith saying 
“ the only thing I want.” Why not slippers with 
pink geraniums ? Why not a little chair ? Why, in 
the name of cleanliness, not a tin basin, since smiths 
must get black ? 

However, since this smith was such an eclectie 
young man, and only wanted a kettle, a kettle he 
should have. So the search for the kettle began, out- 
side and inside the crowded cart. Benjamin helped. 

“You see,” the pedlars explained, rummaging 
among layers of things that were not kettles, “ we 
don’t exactly know for certain whether there is a 
kettle. The fact is, it isn’t our stock ; we’re peddling 
for a friend, who is in hospital. Of course there 
should be a kettle — l-lots of kettles — ” (they 
stammered increasingly as they searched, because 
they were feeling anxious), “ but one n-never knows 
what other people will have thought of putting in. 
If it was our stock, it would have been rather 
different. Fewer brooms, and more amusing things 
— and any n-number of kettles. They are so useful, 
aren’t they? You can use them all the time, if you’ve 
a fire. That’s why they’re really better than brooms. 
. . . Tommy, there is no kettle.” 

That was the final ultimatum, given by the sister 
to the brother ; and both gazed at Benjamin with 
melancholy eyes — great sad blue-grey eyes they 
had, beneath funnily expressive black brows. 

“ Thank you,” said the blacksmith. “ I am sorry 
to have given you the trouble.” 

“ Nothing else will do, I suppose ? ” ventured the 


THE PEDLARS 


7 


sister, but with uncertain hope now, because they 
were getting to understand the sort of determined, 
know-his-own-mind young man they had to do 
with. “ Nothing in enamel plates ... or knives 
. . . N-no thing in . . . that’s what they say in 
shops, you know. It’s nicer than ‘ will plates do 
instead? ’ ” 

“ Betty,” the brother plunged (aside) into des- 
perate renunciation, “ he must have our kettle. We 
have one kettle,” he explained to the smith. “You 
can have it.” 

The sister nodded agreement. “I’m afraid we 
mustn't say it costs very much,” she added, a little 
sadly, “ because it has a hole. A very little hole, 
and high up, above where the water comes, unless 
you fill it very full. It’s a good kettle, but rather 
old. Have you found it, Tommy ? ” 

Tommy had found it ; he displayed it to Ben- 
jamin with some diffidence. “ I think,” he said, 
“ it shouldn’t be more than sixpence, because of 
the hole. Quite a little hole, you see.” 

Benjamin said, “ Thanks, very much. But I 
won’t take your . . . your private kettle ; I’ll 
wait, and get one in the village later.” 

They pressed him. They seemed engagingly to 
attribute his refusal entirely to consideration for 
them. 

“ Oh, but do. We don't want it, really. We can 
get one in Cambridge to-morrow. Cambridge must 
have lots of kettles. And you want one to use to- 
night. You must keep it.” 


8 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ I don’t want a kettle with a hole,” Benjamin 
didn’t (for some reason) say. Instead, with the 
beginnings of his slow smile, he produced sixpence 
and took the kettle from the young man’s hands. 

" But don’t you want to use it to-night ? ” he 
questioned, taking the ground they had assumed for 
him. 

They reassured him. " Not a bit. Oh no.” 

Then it occurred to Benjamin that they really 
must have a use for this kettle ; otherwise why 
should they think that he had ? He put it down. 

“ I think,” he said, “ I won’t take it. Why should 
I have it, rather than you ? ” 

This was an impasse. The blacksmith was 
determined, the pedlars were eager. Then suddenly 
one of them had an idea. 

“ Oh, why shouldn’t we have slipper together ? 
Because of course we both want it for supper, don’t 
we ? -Where do you have supper ? Sometimes we 
go to an inn, and sometimes we have it by the 
roadside, if it’s fine and we’ve got food. We’ve 
got some food to-night, and we were going to have 
it on the road. The kettle boils water for our cocoa 
— that’s what we drink, most evenings. Oh, let’s 
have it together, and then it won’t matter about the 
kettle.” 

“But perhaps you were going somewhere else for 
supper — home or somewhere ? ” suggested the other 
pedlar. 

“ I was going to my cottage,” said the blacksmith. 
" That little place there in the field — you see ? I 


THE PEDLARS 


9 

live alone there. Will you come and have supper 
with me ? ’’ 

They said they would love to. So Benjamin 
locked up his forge, and the pedlars dragged their 
donkey-cart up the little rutty lane between deep 
may hedges to the gap which let one in to Benjamin's 
squat little white cottage. 

“ You cook and everything yourself ? " said the 
girl pedlar, as Benjamin put the kettle on a cooking 
stove and sliced ham into a frying-pan, with the 
same careful dexterity with which he fitted a shoe. 

He answered casually “Yes," and added, perhaps 
defending himself from the touch of commiseration 
(as for fellow-sufferers) that he divined, “ I like it." 
He did not add “ Everyone should cook and every- 
thing for himself," though that was what he meant, 
because he had been learning during the last six 
months that there is a time to preach and a time to 
keep silence. But he was still a preacher at heart ; 
he knew, though he might (at times) refrain from 
saying, what was the better way. 

“ It means so much to do," said his guests, or one of 
them. (He soon came to perceive that it mattered 
very little which spoke ; each voiced the sentiments 
of both.) 

“Not more than one can get through," said Ben- 
jamin. 

“ N-no. But it leaves so little time, somehow. 
We’re always glad when we can afford not to do it. 
Time is so important, isn’t it ? I mean, there are so many 
nice things to get into it that it seems such waste 


10 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


to fill it up with the other things. So we try always 
to do the nice things first, and then see how much 
time is left for the others. Except of course when 
we’re so hard up that ...” The speaker broke off, 
thinking herself tactless. Probably this young man 
was always so hard up that . . . What a shame to 
rub it in. 

" I expect,” said the blacksmith, sizzling the ham, 
" that we look at things rather differently.” That 
was obvious. Even a kettle with a little hole above 
where the water comes unless you fill it very full, 
they looked at quite differently. That is often a 
test. 

But anyhow they all wanted their supper, and all 
enjoyed it when it was ready. There was one dis- 
appointment, however, even about the supper. The 
pedlars refused the ham, recollecting suddenly that 
it was Friday. They were apologetic. “ We have 
to. We’re Catholics, you see. Besides, we really 
don’t want it ; we often just have bread and cheese 
in the evenings, or minestra or something.” Ben- 
jamin took up the Italian word. “ You’re not 
Italian ? ” 

“ Well, no. But we’ve lived there mostly. It’s 
our home. Just now we’re travelling in England. 
It’s a funny country ; we rather like it. We used to 
think we hated it. But that was because we were 
educated there. If you just play, it’s nice. Except 
for the weather, and having colds.” 

Benjamin, eating his ham, pondered silently over 
the reason why his guests could not share it. Being 


THE PEDLARS 


ii 


a person who liked to understand things, he in- 
vestigated the subject further, in his slow, impersonal, 
deliberate way. 

Is it possible to be a — a Catholic, and not bother 
about Fridays ? ” 

The pedlars supposed it might be. “ But we 
don’t bother. It’s what we’re used to. And we’re 
not very fond of meat. In Italy, you know, you eat 
much less meat always . . . But you keep the fasts 
too, in your church — some of you.” 

“Do we? ” Benjamin knew nothing of that. “ I 
don’t belong to any church, you see.” 

His guests looked rather relieved. Those who 
belonged to no church or chapel were apt to look 
more tolerantly on Papists than were the ardent 
chapel-going Protestants who were unfortunately 
numerous in East Anglia, and who sometimes 
seemed to have a curious, vexed feeling about 
keepers of fasts. 

The conversation turned on business. 

“ Can you,” said Tommy (slowly Benjamin was 
beginning to discriminate between him and Betty, 
though any differences beneath the surface that there 
might be had not yet transpired), “ can you give 
us the names of anyone in Cambridge who would 
be likely to buy things from us ? We are very anxious 
to sell our stock, because our friend wants money 
rather badly. You saw the things we had ...” 

Benjamin nodded gravely. He gave the subject, 
as all subjects, his serious attention. Honestly he 
could not, among his acquaintances in Cambridge, 


12 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


think at the moment of anyone particularly likely 
to be in want of carpet slippers or tin pails. 

“ But any of them might, of course/’ he said. 
“You can never tell. It just depends on what they 
happen to be out of at the moment.” 

“ People just married,” suggested Betty. “ They 
always want things. Pictures, you know. Oh, you 
didn’t see our pictures. Tommy does them ; he’s 
rather good.” 

“ I do drawings,” Tommy explained. “ They’re 
not much good. I get some of them into illustrated 
papers, and sell some on the road.” 

That, of course, was a different matter from carpet 
slippers. 

“ May I see some ? ” said Benjamin. So after 
supper Tommy fetched a portfolio out of the donkey- 
cart. 

The drawings were clever, with the neat, practised 
cleverness of the professional. Also they were not 
without humour and charm. They were roadside 
sketches, mostly — village groups and portraits. A 
tendency to farce was sometimes indulged, some- 
times repressed. 

“ Thank you,” said Benjamin, after some time. 
“ May I buy these three ? ” He had selected them 
with deliberation. 

The artist was delighted, and named an absurdly 
small price. Benjamin advised him to ask more, in 
Cambridge. 

“ Cambridge can afford more. Yes, I can give 
you the names of some possible people.” He wrote 


THE PEDLARS 


13 

them down, with addresses, and ended the list with 
his own name. 

"You may like to mention me, because all those 
people are friends of mine ; and before they see the 
drawings that may help. Benjamin Bunter, the 
Wattles blacksmith. You’ll probably find St. 
Martin’s the best college for the better drawings. 
The people there are more appreciative, on the 
whole, than in most of the other colleges. But for 
the — the more comic drawings, some of the other 
colleges would be as good — Norfolk, or St. Faith’s, 
for instance. Don’t, of course, mention my name 
except to the people on the list. It might be a pity, 
because some of the people in Cambridge who know 
me think I’m such an ass that nothing I admired 
could be good.” 

The pedlars nodded sympathetically. “ Thank 
you, very much,” they said. “ Our name is Creve- 
quer. We ...” Music swung suddenly out of 
the night — the melody of the merry-go-round, 
raucous and romantic. The Crevequers became 
abstracted. Tommy leant out of the window to 
listen. 

“ A fair ? ” he enquired. 

Benjamin nodded. 

“ It’s feast week in Wattles. That’ll go on till 
midnight.” He looked resigned. But the Creve- 
quers appeared to be thrilled. 

“ Thank you so much,” said Betty, rising, " for 
our n-nice supper. It’s been a splendid plan. And 
now, asjit’s a fair, we must go at once.” 


14 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


As Benjamin looked as if he didn’t quite make the 
connection, they added, “ Aren’t you coming your- 
self ? ” 

" I don’t,” said the young man, “ usually go to 
it.” 

“ How funny. Why not ? Isn’t it a good fair ? ” 

Benjamin looked a little dubious as he replied, 
“Oh, I expect so. But ... it makes rather a noise 
. . . and a crowd . . . and swing-boats make me 
giddy, rather.” Those were good normal reasons for 
not liking a fair, so he gave them. 

Since the Crevequers loved a noise and a crowd, 
and considered that giddiness was a cheap price to 
pay for a ride in a swing boat, it was obvious that 
sympathies were here imperfect. The Crevequers 
accepted the explanation with an air of intelligent 
comprehension ; but Benjamin felt moved to 
clarify his position in their eyes ; he was so sincere 
a young man that he didn’t like really to take his 
stand on any ground, however normal, that wasn’t 
actually his. So, to the objections he might have 
felt to the fair, he added the one he did feel. 

“ People get tipsy, and racket about so late that 
it spoils their next day’s work. That’s stupid.” 

“ I suppose it is.” Politely they supposed so, 
but without enthusiasm. 

The missionary in Benjamin leapt out. 

“ It’s idiotic. It isn’t worth it.” He was very 
firm, not being sure that they agreed with him. 

They didn’t seem sure as to that, either. 

“ I suppose, though,” ventured one of them, “ it 


THE PEDLARS 


15 


must be worth it really — or they w-wouldn’t do it.” 
“ And they have so many days’ work,” added the 
other, " that I suppose they feel they can spare one 
or two now and then, for the fair. I expect they 
enjoy their work all the more because of having a 
good time in between. Tommy and I do.” 

“You know,” Tommy explained, when you’re so 
hard up for a bit that you have to do rather a lot 
of work, it gets soon so that you can't bear it any 
more without a change or a rest. Then you go to 
a fair, and go in a swing-boat or something, and 
throw rings at alarm clocks (only you never get 
them) — well, or get tipsy, if that’s the way you like 
— and you feel so much better afterwards.” 

“ As long,” said Benjamin, who had a fetich, “ as 
one doesn’t let things get in the way of one’s work — 
that’s all that matters.” 

This surprising statement touched the brother’s 
and sister’s rather mournful regard with bewilder- 
ment. A remarkable young man, this seemed, who 
saw everything an odd way round. As long, held the 
Crevequers, as you don’t let your work get in the 
way of more things than need be — that was all that 
mattered. Since it was too large an issue to dispute, 
they wisely left it there, and parted with friendliness, 
Benjamin keeping the kettle at his guests’ request. 

" A fair, you know,” they added, “ is good busi- 
ness for us. People get excited, and buy s-slippers and 
things. Come along, Betty. Good-night, and thank- 
you most awfully. We shall try Cambridge to- 
morrow for the drawings.” 


i6 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


So they went off to the fair and threw rings at 
clocks, but failed to secure anything but a salt- 
cellar, and spent a lot of money. 

Benjamin washed up — an operation that rather 
interested him. He was an easily interested person. 
So were the Crevequers. Benjamin liked them, 
but thought them wrong about most things. He 
gathered that (so far as they worked at all, which 
perhaps wasn’t saying much) they did but work 
because they must and toiled but as the linnets do. 
Well, as most people do, Benjamin would have ad- 
mitted. But then most people, of course, are quite 
wrong. Benjamin, having a fetich, divided people 
into those who did work and liked it (Class I), those 
who did work and didn't like it (Class II), those who 
didn’t do work though they needed the money 
(Class III), and those who didn’t do work because 
they didn’t need the money (no class at all). The 
Crevequers probably oscillated (according to how 
impecunious they were at the moment) between 
Classes II and III. The only class that really annoyed 
Benjamin was the last, and they manifestly didn’t 
belong to that. 

The chief object of Benjamin Bunter’s ambition 
at this time was to put everybody into Class I. It 
was so sad that there should be any other classes 
at all. At present he had only succeeded in putting 
himself there ; but he was occupied with a scheme 
for putting one other person there, out of Class II. 
It was proving rather a distracting business, involv- 
ing a good deal of correspondence. For Benjamin 


THE PEDLARS 


17 


always tried to be considerate ; that is, to explain 
to the people who remonstrated with him why his 
way was the one good way. This was what he was 
preparing to do now, when, having washed up the 
leadless-glaze supper things and removed the cloth, 
he sat down at the table with letter-paper and a 
Waterman fountain-pen, and wrote, in his square, 
firm hand, 

“ My dear Mother, 

“ Thank you for your last. Perhaps, as you 
suggest, it would be a good thing that we should 
meet, in order to talk things over. If you would 
as soon come down here as that I should come 
home for the day, that would suit me best, on the 
whole. Only let me know when you will come. 
It would be very nice if you came to tea, say, on 
Monday.” A pause here, during which Benjamin 
bit the end of the Waterman pen and frowned. 
When he frowned his thick black eyebrows met 
over his deep blue eyes and gave him the look of 
a worried infant scowling at an imbecile world. 
He added abruptly, “ I have, I may as well say, 
quite made up my mind about this step, and I do 
not think we shall gain anything by discussing it. 
But, of course, I will explain anything in my posi- 
tion that is not clear to you, as I should naturally 
like you to agree with me. Your affectionate son, 
“ Benjamin Bunter.” 

Pathetic, that last remark. For Benjamin 
Bunter’s mother never had agreed with him about 
c 


i8 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


anything, since the days when the baby Benjamin 
had taken off his baby shoes in his perambulator 
and surreptitiously dropped them overboard, on 
the grounds that shoes were not a necessity of exist- 
ence, and that one should limit oneself to such things 
as were. His mother possibly agreed with the 
Crevequers — the more things the better, and es- 
pecially unnecessary things, which are so pleasant. 

When he had finished and directed his letter, 
Benjamin, settling himself in a wooden-seated chair 
with a sigh of relief, read somebody’s “ Theory of 
the Integral Calculus.” He didn’t smoke, because 
he didn’t approve of expensive tobacco and didn’t 
like cheap tobacco. Besides, why should one smoke ? 
Benjamin thought it an unnecessary habit. And when 
one had a book so interesting (although fallacious 
in some points, which Benjamin carefully noted on 
the margin) as the “Theory of the Integral Calculus” 
one didn’t miss smoking. 

But Benjamin was really a sociable person, so he 
laid down his book, after finishing a marginal note, 
with a pleasant smile, when a young man knocked 
and entered, and said, “ What price the fair, Ben? ” 

He said it without joviality. He didn’t, in fact, 
look a jovial person. He was a very pale, thin young 
man, with narrow shoulders and bitter-looking lips, 
and an unhappy smile. When he said, “ What price 
the fair ? ” he seemed to be, in a manner, sneering 
at the fair. 

Benjamin said “ Sit down, Harry,” and pushed a 
chair towards him, and shut the " Theory of the 


THE PEDLARS 


19 


Integral Calculus,” because Harry Robinson de- 
manded one’s exclusive attention, and when he 
didn’t get it, said, “ Oh, of course, I’m not an 
interestin’ feller,” and went away and took quite a 
long time to get over it. Harry, in fact, was touchy ; 
and Benjamin, who was not, had learnt to be careful 
of him. 

“ Fair,” repeated Mr. Robinson with a fresh access 
of contempt for it. “ Fair” 

That seemed to be about all he had to say about it. 
He broodingly lit a cigarette, and sat in silence. 
Benjamin, to change the subject, said it had been a 
good meeting last night. Mr. Robinson, a little 
grudgingly, acknowledged it. 

“ But arterwards,” he added, “ things come to me 
as I might have said and didn’t. Ways of puttin’ 
the matter, as it were, that would have fair knocked 
’em over. When Poulter was jumpin’ on me about 
the factory laws, thinkin’ ’imself so clever, why 
didn't I think of what come to me arterwards to 
reply ? ” 

Benjamin didn’t ask what that was, having learnt 
that Harry, touched with jealousy, believed that 
the only way to reserve his good things for his 
personal use was to hide them secretly in his own 
soul. For the reply that had come to him too late 
for last night’s Minority Report meeting would do 
for the next. They had them quite often in Wattles, 
now that Benjamin Bunter had settled there and 
had organised the Socialist Club. 

Harry Robinson, changing the subject quickly, 


20 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


lest Benjamin should pick his brains, left politics 
for the home, and said, “ We ’alf looked for you to 
come and see us to-night. Louie ’alf looked for you." 

“ I’m sorry," said Benjamin. " I had some 
people in to supper, then a letter to write." 

“ Did you ? What people might they be ? " 
Harry Robinson took a pessimistic interest in his 
neighbours’ concerns. 

Benjamin told him they were people out of a ped- 
lar’s cart ; and Mr. Robinson said, with his weary 
scorn, " Oh, them. I saw them. They was sellin’ 
their trumpery articles at the feast, as I come through. 
Ought to be ’ad up, I say, for loafin’ and vagrancy. 
Call that an honest liveli’ood. They were talkin’ 
away — no better than they should be, I should say, 
if you ask me. A disgrace to the country, these 
pedlars and tramps — they’re all one. An’ better 
folks slavin’ an’ grindin’ an’ sweatin’, an’ killin’ 
themselves to earn an honest penny. They don’t 
know nothin’ about work, people like that don’t. 
. . . Oh, Lord, Ben, I'm fair sick of the whole show ! ’’ 

He broke out suddenly, savagely, striking his 
thin hand on the solid oak table. It was when he 
was in this mood that he came to Benjamin Bunter, 
whose steady convictions were consoling. Benja- 
min’s convictions were merely that a better time 
was on its way ; that before very long no one would 
be slaving or grinding or sweating or killing himself, 
and no one loafing and disgracing the country. Work 
for all ; overwork for none ; a simple and engaging 
programme. 


THE PEDLARS 


21 


Benjamin was very sorry for Harry Robinson, 
who was overworked at the tanyard, and saw the 
world askew. He didn’t enjoy life ; and everyone 
ought to enjoy life. He was in Class II. 

So was his sister Louie — a more estimable person, 
however, who didn’t sneer, but took the world with 
patient amenity. 


CHAPTER II 

THE BUNTERS 

The Vicar of Wattles was writing notices for the 
forthcoming number of the parish magazine when 
Lady Lettice Bunter was announced to him. 

“ Never heard of her.” said the Vicar, who often 
spoke aloud to himself. “ We were most fortunate 
in our weather, and altogether had a most enjoyable 
day.” The second “most” had to come out, and 
“ very ” was inserted instead. That done, the Vicar 
wrote “ Choir Treat ” at the head of the paragraph, 
and put it beneath a paper-weight, together with 
other paragraphs, headed respectively “C.E.M.S.,” 
“Mothers’ Union,” and “Church Lads’ Brigade.” It 
was June, and these societies had all had most enjoy- 
able days lately, and had all been most fortunate in 
their weather, and it was rather difficult to vary 
the reports of their doings. The weather was pro- 
pitious, and we all agreed that it had been a delight- 
ful day (C.E.M.S.). The lovely weather contributed 
largely to the success of our day (Church Lads' 
Brigade). But the G.F.S. day hadn’t yet been 
22 


THE BUNTERS 


23 


reported on ; the Associate who had undertaken 
to do it perhaps couldn’t think of anything to say 
about it. It had only been yesterday ; and it takes 
a little time to recover from these things. If one 
writes about them at once, one says, “ The day was 
chaotic, and we cannot remember what happened, 
except that we all screamed a great deal ; and now 
our heads ache, and we are exceedingly glad that our 
Festival is over for a year.” But after a few days one 
gets better, and in a state to say “ the weather was 
propitious.” 

Anyhow the Vicar had now to leave his literary 
labours and go to Lady Lettice Bunter, of whom 
he had never heard. He wasn’t surprised that she 
should call on him ; vicars are always having to see 
people of whom they have never heard. Perhaps 
she wanted a subscription. 

The Vicar of Wattles was a large, pleasant man with 
shrewd grey eyes and amused lips. Lady Lettice Bunter 
was a tall, slim woman of great grace, with a rather 
lovely face and a plaintive voice. She was forty-six, 
and looked about thirty-eight. She said, " So good 
of you to see me. If I may ask you a few questions. 
. . . A matter I am much troubled about. . . . 
You know my son, of course.” 

The Vicar twisted his lips and tried to remember 
how and why he knew her son. 

“ My boy Benjamin . . . silly boy ... a black- 
smith, you know. So original in his ways — he would 
be a blacksmith. Directly he came down from Cam- 
bridge he started it. You know how it is when a 


24 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


lot of silly young men get together talking. And my 
son is the most obstinate boy. He gets an idea, and 
nothing will move him. So he’s a blacksmith. Here 
in Wattles, you know.” 

“ Oh, yes. Stupid of me. I didn’t think for the 
moment who he would be. He’s never mentioned 
his family to me. Of course, I know him quite well. 
I believe he’s an excellent blacksmith ; they tell me 
so.” He paused questioningly, waiting for the few 
questions she wished to ask him. If they were to 
be about Bunter the blacksmith, really she probably 
knew more than he did. He hadn’t much knowledge 
of Bunter the blacksmith’s private affairs ; he only 
knew him to be a pleasant-mannered, cranky-headed 
young man, who refused (on principle, one gathered) 
to come to dinner, and refrained (on principle also) 
from coming to church, and got up socialist meetings 
in the village, and played cricket on Sunday after- 
noons, and was an excellent blacksmith. The 
Vicar had never heard any harm of the young man ; 
and his curate, Diggs, had been by way of making 
friends with him. Diggs too was a socialist. He 
used to bring Bunter the Church Socialist Quarterly 
to read, and tell him of the splendid work done by 
the Church Socialist League. 

“ I wish you’d join it,” he would urge. “ You 
think it’s a special brand of socialism, like weak tea 
— but it isn't. We stand for all the principles of 
the Fabian Society, the S.D.P., and . . .” and so 
forth. Diggs was used to hammering at stupid 
people who spelt Church Socialism with a hyphen. 


THE BUNTERS 


25 


But Benjamin wasn’t one of those. He highly 
approved of the League, only you can’t well join 
it unless you are a churchman. “ But why aren’t 
you ? ” said Diggs ; and Benjamin would explain, 
at some length, as one’s own theory of the universe 
is rather an interesting subject. 

“ It’s all this silly socialism,” said Lady Lettice 
Bunter. “ They pick it up, you know, like measles. 
More particularly at St. Martin’s — my son’s college. 
Benjamin got a bad attack. So he’s a blacksmith.” 

The Vicar nodded assent. “An unusual young 
man,” he observed. “ They don’t as a rule become 
blacksmiths, however bad the attack.” 

“ But Benjie has a fad about working with his 
hands,” his mother explained. “ He seems to think 
it’s the only respectable sort of work a man can do. 
Anyhow he’s sure it’s the work for him ; though he 
has a head too, really.” 

“ There’s plenty of head,” said the Vicar, “comes 
into a smith’s work. And you wanted to consult 
me . . . .” It was time for him to go out visiting, 
so he hurried her. 

“Yes,” said Lady Lettice, concentrating. She 
found it a little difficult, being vague— quite different 
from Benjamin. “ About a young woman in your 
village. Louisa Robinson, the name is. Now what 
sort of a young woman is she ? ” 

The Vicar, who was concise, said, “She works 
at the Enderby paper-mills. She is one of a large 
and very poor family ; her father is an incompetent, 
her mother not strong, her only grown-up brother 


26 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


something of a weakling and working too hard for his 
physique. Louie runs the family more or less. A 
hard-working gentle-mannered, rather delicate young 
woman of about five and twenty.” 

“ Exactly,” said Lady Lettice, a little faintly, 
“ what I gathered from Benjie ... It must be 
stopped, Mr. Dunstan. It cannot conceivably go 
on.” 

“No?” said the Vicar. “I expect you mean 
that your son and the young woman are becoming 
undesirably intimate. Is that so ? ” 

She said simply, “ He says he is going to marry her. 
He says nothing will stop him — not me, nor his 
father, nor anything. He is like that, you see. He 
makes up his mind to do a thing, and does it. And 
you see how unthinkable ...” 

The Vicar of course saw. “Curious,” he mused. 
“ I wonder why . . . She isn’t beautiful, you know, 

the young woman ” but Lady Lettice interrupted. 

“ Oh, dear me, Benjie wouldn’t care if she was. He 
never does care for things like that. He’s probably 
determined to marry her simply because she’s a 
working-woman — and women ought to work, don’t 
you know ; so ought men, of course. And no class 
barriers, and so forth, and all classes to marry each 
other — so chaotic.” 

The Vicar nodded. “A remarkable young man. 
He appears to have a quite unusual habit of con- 
verting theory into action. Quite so. Then you 
don’t think he — cares for Louisa Robinson exactly ? 
Rather a marriage of principle than of affection ? ” 


THE BUNTERS 


27 


" Oh, well, you know, Eve no doubt he’s worked 
himself up into thinking he cares for her. But what 
he really cares for is the working-class as a whole ; 
this Louisa Robinson is merely a type to him.” 
Lady Lettice seemed to know her son, however 
different from herself he might be. 

“ Well,” the Vicar said, since time was getting on, 
“ anything I can do to help . . . But I’m afraid 
it’s scarcely my province, perhaps. It’s not even as 
if either of them were definite Church members, you 
see. I shouldn’t, in any case, have the marrying 
of them. Your son is a firm secularist, isn’t he ? ” 

“ Such a pity,” said Lady Lettice. “ I’m always 
speaking to Benjie about that. You couldn’t, I 
suppose, do anything in that matter ? . . . Oh, well, 
never mind, that isn’t the point at the moment, of 
course. About the young woman — somehow she 
must be detached. I can’t do it ; I have been 
remonstrating with Benjie for weeks. So has his 
father. But he has been quarrelling with his father 
for the last six months, about this blacksmith 
business. Benjie always quarrels with well-off 
people when he can ; he doesn’t like them. He’s 
desperately ashamed of his family— coal-mines, you 
know, and of course they do bring in something. 
It can’t be helped, of course. But the consequence 
is that what we say to him doesn’t seem to have the 
least effect — the voice of the wealthy, the cry of the 
idle rich, and all that. What can one do ? It’s no 
use cutting off his allowance, because he won’t take 
a penny ever. Ill-gotten gains — battening on the 


28 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


life-blood of the poor — that sort of thing, you know. 
Money is a crime ; one should give it all away and 
start fresh as a ploughman or a maid of all work, 
with nothing but a little leadless glaze ; no, not a 
maid of all work, because no one should keep maids 
at all. But — oh, well, of course you know the sort 
of thing. And when one belongs to the criminal 
classes, one’s words have no weight. Nowyow . . .” 

“ I don’t, certainly, belong to the criminal 
classes,” said the Vicar, regretfully. “Except that 
I do keep maids, which he probably knows ; and 
not all my glaze is leadless. Those two facts are 
perhaps sufficient to deprive my words of their due 
weight. And I hardly, I fear, know him well enough 
to interfere.” 

“ Vicars,” said Lady Lettice, “ have rights. Your 
own parishioners, after all. ... If only he believed 
more in the Church ! Not that he doesn’t think it a 
fine institution, you know, and all that, but he 
won’t come. A free-thinker, like so many young 
men. . . . What I hoped was that you might deal 
with the Robinson family. Tell them, you know, 
how extremely unsuitable it is of them.” 

“They wouldn’t agree with me,” said the Vicar, 
firmly. “ And really it would be, on my part, an 
extremely unsuitable interference. You see, I 
rather value any influence I may have in this place 
— one doesn’t have much, you know — and I'm 
afraid I can’t afford to throw it away like that . . . 
I’m very sorry, Lady Lettice. I hope you may have 
success yourself in this matter. You might interview 


THE BUNTERS 


29 


the girl, of- course. She lives in the white cottage 
at the corner of the street by the church ; only 
she won’t be home from work yet. . . . May I 
suggest that you should be a little careful of her 
feelings — well, of course you would be. The Robin- 
sons are a sensitive family — particularly the girl’s 
brother, who is very easily put up in arms. A poor 
touchy fellow, with half a lung and a democratic 
soul. Don’t put your objections too ostensibly on 
the grounds of class difference, I should recommend.” 

“ Oh,” said Lady Lettice, “ these dreadful times ! 
You do agree with me, don’t you, Mr. Dunstan, that 
these disasters ought to be averted at any cost — 
that they are unmitigated calamities ? ” She was 
beginning to be doubtful whether he too wasn’t a 
socialist — a church one, no doubt, but there are those 
who think that is worse. 

“ I never,” said the Vicar, “generalise. I judge 
each case as it comes. And is any calamity unmiti- 
gated ? ” 

He wasn’t a socialist (because he never generalised) 
but he was unsatisfactory. People should generalise ; 
otherwise where is the use of their experience ? 

The Bunter family all generalised ; Lady Lettice 
said, “Mixed marriages are calamities” (and they 
aren’t always) ; Benjamin said, “To work is the only 
claim to live ” (obviously a lie, and badly put at 
that) ; his father said, “ Boys are conceited apes ” 
(certainly too sweeping) ; his brother Hugh, waiting 
in the motor car outside the vicarage, said, “Mother 
does manage to put in time wherever she goes,” 


30 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


which was as nearly true as a generalisation can be 
expected to be. 

Hugh Bunter was an extraordinarily good-looking 
young man of five and twenty. He wasn’t in the 
least like Benjamin to look at ; he hadn’t got a 
square jaw and heavy brows and obstinate lips, but 
a fair pale face like Lady Lettice’s, and well-cut 
features and a slim fine body, and a general air of put- 
ting up with nothing but the best. His theory of life 
was “ Money is there to be spent ” (another generalis- 
ation), and he shared Benjamin’s habit of converting 
theory into action as immediately as might be. 
" Live and let live ” was another theory of his ; so 
he didn’t see why all this fuss. If Benjie liked to be 
a blacksmith, and to marry one Louisa Robinson 
of Wattles — well, why not ? As long as Benjie was 
pleased, and Louisa Robinson was pleased — really, 
that was all. He, Hugh Bunter, had other things to 
think of, anyhow. He shared neither his young 
cousin Cecil’s unconsidered enthusiasm for Ben- 
jamin’s principles and expression of them nor his 
parents’ aversion. Hugh looked at things from a 
detached standpoint, and gave everyone his full 
liberty of thought and action. He was something 
of a cynic, but a pleasant cynic. 

“The Vicar won’t help me,’’ remarked Lady 
Lettice, getting into the car. “ Says it isn’t his 
business. So tiresome of Benjie not to go to church. 
Then the Vicar could perhaps have said a word. . . . 
The young woman doesn’t go either, it seems— to 
church, I mean. I suppose Benjie tells her she 


THE BUNTERS 


3i 


mustn’t. So they wouldn’t even have the banns 
put up, I imagine, and that makes it difficult for 
the Vicar. ... I expect that’s the young woman’s 
cottage.” 

“ Another call ? ” asked Hugh. “ She’ll probably 
be out at work, you know, Miss Robinson. Suppose 
we go straight to Benjie’s. I want tea.” 

” Well,” said Lady Lettice, “so do I. And, of 
course, it would be no pleasure to see those people ; 
most trying for them and me. I hear the young 
woman’s brother is an anarchist or something, and 
flares up if you mention class.” 

“ Sounds like Benjie himself. We won’t mention 
class to either of them ; we’ll only mention tea. 

After fifty-seven miles in this dust . There’s 

the forge.” 

Benjamin came out of the forge to meet them. 
Motors were in bad taste, and battened on the life- 
blood of the poor ; but he was pleased to see his 
mother and Hugh, being an affectionate boy. And 
it was as well to have the opportunity of thrashing 
the subject of Louie Robinson thoroughly out. Then 
there need be no more misunderstandings or dis- 
cussions. Benjamin had a charming faith in the 
sweet reasonableness of human beings in general. 
It came from being so reasonable himself. 

Lady Lettice said, “ My darling boy ! How poorly 
you look.” Benjamin didn’t ; but she always said 
that now that he was a blacksmith, because she knew 
that he was overworking and underfeeding, and must 
therefore be poorly. According to her, as Benjamin 


32 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


often explained to her (he was given to explanation) 
the great mass of our population must all be and 
look poorly. “ I daresay they do, poor things/’ she 
said, vaguely. She seldom argued, but always, 
sweetly reasonable, accepted Benjamin’s logic, as 
if it laid no burden on her. 

They all three went up the lane to the white 
cottage, while the chauffeur took the motor away 
to be fed with petrol. 

“ Two hours from Hyde Park Corner, Benjie,” 
said Hugh, who had driven himself. 

“ It’s disgraceful,” said Benjie, mechanically, 
warming the earthen tea-pot, “ a dusty day like 
this. It’s inhuman.” 

Lady Lettice said, “ Darling boys, don’t squabble 
just now about motors and dust ; there isn’t time. 
We have to be back for dinner, and so much to say ! ” 

“ Not very much really,” said Benjamin, pouring 
in boiling water out of a shining, brand new kettle 
that had come by post yesterday. “ I can explain 
to you quite shortly my point of view.” 

“ For me to say, I meant,” Lady Lettice amended, 
“ not for you ” ; and Hugh smiled, but Benjamin 
only looked patient and thoughtful and absorbed, 
as he poured out tea into leadless glaze cups. 

Then a sudden helplessness seemed to take Lady 
Lettice. There was so much to say that it all failed 
her. She turned for help to her eldest son. " Tell 
him, Hugh dear, what we all think about it.” 

“ Is there any need ? ” Hugh asked. “You 
know, Benjie, don’t you ? If you must make 


THE BUNTERS 


33 


anything so vulgar as a mercenary marriage, you had 
so much better go for money than for the lack of it.” 

Benjamin nodded soberly, “Yes, I know what 
you all think about it. I got all your letters, you 
see, mother. And father's. I tried to explain to 
you in my answers what my point of view was. 
You did read them, didn’t you ? ” 

He had dutifully written pages, and it hadn’t 
seemed to him that the arguments contained in 
them had always been carefully met in his parents’ 
replies. 

Hugh reassured him on that point. “ They read 
them aloud at breakfast.” He sighed a little. 

“ And don’t you,” said Benjamin to his mother, 
“ see my point ? ” He was very anxious that his 
point should be seen ; it was such an obviously 
reasonable one. 

“ Oh, my dear,” said his mother, “ I remember 
all you’ve said about it. Men must marry, to popu- 
late the country (as if there wasn’t too large a 
population already, so that crowds have to emigrate 
by every boat), and the best people should do it 
rather than the worst.” 

“ Yes,” said Benjamin. “ That is, the industrial 
part of the population rather than the idle.” 

“ And we should all marry out of our class. . . .” 

Benjamin frowned. “ I never said that. I never 
mentioned class at all. I said, and I maintain, that 
we should all marry the hardest workers we know.” 

“ Of course, we can’t all do that,” his mother 
gently corrected (she had occasional flashes of 

D 


34 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


accuracy) ; “ you aren’t always quite exact, darling, 
are you? But never mind that ; I see what you mean, 
of course. Only aren’t you just a little young to 
marry anyone , dearest child ? ” 

“ No,” said Benjamin. " Men of my age constantly 
marry.” 

Lady Lettice remembered that they did, in what 
she was not allowed to call the working classes, so 
she renounced that point. 

“ But Benjie, dear, what about love ? Oh, I know 
you don’t like me to talk about that, but I must, 
for once, and you must try and not be a prude, 
darling.” 

He was not succeeding in this endeavour, ap- 
parently ; he was blushing all over his square brown 
face. Love wasn’t one of the things one talked 
about at tea ; perhaps one didn’t talk about it at 
all. But his mother, an unreticent lady, persisted 
in doing so. 

“You see, dear boy, later on, when you are more 
grown up, you may become fond of someone. Then 
what a pity that it should be too late ! You see, 
don’t you? You’re too young to know what love 
is — but in a few years . . . There are so many nice 
girls, you know, of your own sort.” 

“ My sort ? ” Benjamin interrogated. “ I am a 
blacksmith. I am going to marry a mill-hand. That 
is my own sort. The nice girls you (I presume) are 
referring to don’t marry blacksmiths. The working- 
classes,” he was quoting her against herself, “ should 
marry among themselves.” He had successfully 


THE BUNTERS 


35 

steered the conversation from love, which em- 
barrassed him. 

“ Oh, my dear, you speak as if you were always 
going on with this blacksmith silliness ! It will 

pass off ” she was reassuring him, as if it was 

influenza, “ and then you’ll fall in love with some 
nice girl. Not a rich girl, perhaps ; there’s no need 
for that, and you don’t like rich people, I know ; 
but there are so many charming girls with no money, 
but with breeding. Aren’t there, Hugh ? ” 

“ Presumably.” Hugh was more interested at the 
moment in the drawings on Benjie’s chimney-piece 
than in charming girls. He didn’t want to talk 
about love either ; it was rather boring and a trifle 
bourgeois. And it was nearly time they started 
back to town. 

But Lady Lettice returned to the charge with 
unwonted pertinacity. 

“ Now, Benjie, tell me honestly. Do you love 
this (I’ve no doubt very nice and good) girl ? Or 
is it merely that you feel you must marry the 
hardest worker you know ? Though if you come to 
that I’m sure I know plenty of girls who work quite 
as hard, doing things at home, and going out, and 
all that. There’s Doris Overton, now, always 
looking after her mother, who’s so provoking, poor 
thing, and doing all the flowers herself, and seeing 
after everything, and writing notes, besides all the 
golf she has to play, and debating societies and 
things — she seems always in a rush. . . . But I 
daresay she wouldn’t have you ; in fact, she can’t 


36 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


leave home at present. . . . But never mind her ; 
what I want to know is, do you care for this Louisa ? 
Now don’t look cross, Benjie,but think and tell me.” 

Benjie did look a little cross, but said simply 
” Of course I do, mother. That is naturally one of 
the points I have taken into consideration. It 
would be ridiculous not to. In my opinion, people 
ought not to marry without caring for each other.” 

Lady Lettice sighed, and had another flash of 
logic. " Then, in your opinion, people who can't care 
for the hardest worker they know oughtn’t to marry 
at all. Really, Benjie, if your object is to continue 

the population ! You don’t always think things 

out, darling, do you. Well, never mind. ... I 
hear the young woman has a brother, a sort of 
demagogue person.” 

“ How do you hear that ? ” asked Benjie. 

“ Your Vicar. Oh, yes, I’ve been calling there. 
Such a picturesque old church. Why don’t you go 
to it, Benjie ? The Vicar seems a very pleasant 
person, but not effective. No control over his 
people ; one would think that was a Vicar’s business, 
but he thinks not.” 

“I’m sorry you should have asked him to interfere 
with my concerns,” said Benjamin. " If you had 
asked me first, I could have told you that was no 
good. He isn’t a meddler. I like him.” 

“ Rather clever, these drawings,” said Hugh, 
because Benjie seemed to be getting a little sulky, 
and Hugh didn’t like unpleasantness. “ Who did 
them ? ” 


THE BUNTERS 


37 


Benjamin was not attending to him. He attended 
to one thing at once, always. He stood before his 
mother with his hands in his pockets, and looked 
gravely down at her, and said, “ I am going to marry 
Louie Robinson on the tenth. It is all settled.” 

Lady Lettice cried, “ Oh, darling — why the tenth ?” 
to gain time ; then she got up and put her arms 
round him and said, “ Benjie, I ask you ... for 
my sake . . . ” 

Benjie said, “ Mother, please don’t,” and for once 
himself turned from argument to pleading. “ I ask 
you, for my sake, to be nice to her. To make no 
difference. To try and like her. Anyhow, to be 
kind.” 

Lady Lettice cried a little then. “ When I see 
you making such a terrible mistake — such a mess, 
darling, of your life . . . what can I do but try and 
prevent it ? But of course when its actually done — 
if you actually must do it — it will be no good making 
a fuss any more ; and you’ve never found me dis- 
agreeable to you yet, have you, dear ? But I must 
warn you that father is coming down to see you. 
I said I would try first — I and Hugh — not that Hugh 
is doing much — and if I failed, he would come and 
see you himself, and literally forbid it.” 

Benjamin was looking displeased. “It is such a 
pity,” he said, “ that father should take this line. 
It is no use. I have told him it is no use. I will tell 
him again. I am frightfully sorry you and he mind 
so much, mother ; but it has to be done.” 

When Benjamin spoke in that voice, it really did 


38 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


seem no use. Lady Lettice sighed and kissed him, 
and said they had to start home now. Hugh, 
detached to the last, went out to see after the car. 
When he came back he said, “ We shall have to do 
it in an hour and fifty minutes. I am frightfully 
sorry you mind, Benjie, but it has to be done, 
because of dinner. Goodbye. Who did the drawings? 
They’re clever.” 

" A pedlar,” said Benjie, "in a donkey-cart. It 
will be no use you or father seeing or writing to the 
Robinsons, by the way, mother, because you won’t 
be able to influence them. Perhaps you didn’t mean 
to ; if not, I beg your pardon. But, anyhow, it 
would be no use. Goodbye, mother.” He kissed 
her very affectionately. He was extremely fond of 
her, and hated all this distress he was causing. 

“ Quite clever,” said Hugh, examining them. 

“ Oh, Hugh,” said his mother, “ what do the 
pictures matter ? You haven’t helped me at all. 
Can’t you tell Benjie what you think about all this ? ” 
Hugh looked at his watch. “ We shall have to do 
it in an hour and forty minutes, then. I don't 
mind, if Benjie doesn’t. What I think ? Well, it’s 
so extremely obvious, besides not being my business. 
But as you like, mother. What I think is that Benjie 
proposes to take what may or may not be a sensible 
step — no one can tell till they see it working, of 
course — but from the most entirely ridiculous 
motives. It may or may not be a success ; but Benjie 
doesn’t deserve that it should be. He is making 
the only hopeless mistake — putting individuality 


THE BUNTERS 


39 


underneath a cause ; doing a thing not because 
he wants to but because he thinks he ought to want 
to ; trying to bring a particular case under the laws 
that in his opinion (of course he's quite wrong about 
that, too, by the way) govern the universe. You 
can’t do that. It can’t be done. Particular cases 
aren’t under general laws ; they’re much too import- 
ant individually to be suborned in support of a 
principle. So, in fact, there are no general principles; 
or if there are they're singularly in the air. And 
least of all there are general principles where people 
are concerned. People are so much more important 
than any cause ; they aren’t under laws ; they 
make laws. When what they call the personal 
factor comes in, it simply gets up and upsets the 
whole show. So Benjie is an ass. 

“ That’s all I think. I am sorry to have had to bore 
you with it, Benjie. . . . I should rather like to come 
across that pedlar ; he has a sense of humour. I like 
his cow. Goodbye, Benjie, and try to think better 
of it and not to be absurd.” 

“ Goodbye, Hugh. Goodbye, mother dear.” 

He watched them get into the car and start, at 
the rate of fifty-seven miles in an hour and forty 
minutes, and the white dust surged behind them. 

Benjamin sighed as he saw the dust. He was 
ashamed for them. Hugh didn’t allow general laws, 
or any other laws, to govern his motoring ; each 
mile of the road he dealt with as it came, on its own 
merits. He really had a general principle about not 
being a nuisance on the road, because he was pleasant 


40 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


and kind ; but when any particular case turned up, 
and principle or case had to go to the wall, it was 
the principle that went. Hugh went through life 
with a serene, unworried tranquillity, taking things 
easily because they didn’t have to square with one 
another. He was an empiricist. 

Benjamin wasn’t. He said, principles not inci- 
dents. Benjamin was an appalling generaliser. 
There, for the moment, he seemed to be alone. The 
vicar of Wattles judged each case as it came ; and 
Hugh said there were no principles ; and the pedlars 
in the donkey-cart said . . . 

Benjamin, looking at the new kettle, couldn't 
imagine them saying anything about it ; they would 
think it so obvious, and there were so many nice things 
to do in the brief time at their disposal that they 
couldn’t spare any of it to theorise in. 

There was one element in this affair that Benjamin 
had perhaps made too little of in his discussions with 
his family, being a reticent boy. The consequence 
was that they all took the ground that this was not 
at all an affair of the affections, but of pure principle. 
As a matter of fact, why shouldn’t it be both ? In 
fact, it must be both, since pure principle said that 
one mustn’t marry without affection. Benjamin had 
said baldly, “ It is naturally one of the points I have 
taken into consideration ” ; but he couldn’t go further 
than that, and explain to them the feeling he had for 
Louie Robinson — a feeling so tender, so reverent, so 
chivalrous, that to allude to it as a point he had taken 
into consideration was really quite inexpressive. 


THE BUNTERS 


4i 


Benjamin went to see Louie that evening, and they 
met on the warm, dusky road outside the Robinson's 
cottage. He gave her some mignonette that he had 
picked out of his tiny garden for her, and said, “ Will 
you marry me next Saturday instead of the tenth ? " 

Her pale face and patient brown eyes glimmered 
out of the dusk. 

“ As you like, Ben,” she said. In her gentle voice, 
the remarkable Cambridgeshire intonation was 
softened and refined. “ That do seem soon,” she 
added. 

“ Yes,” said Benjamin ; “it does seem rather 
soon. But there are reasons why it is better.” 

“You had visitors this afternoon, didn't you ? ” 
she said. “ In a car.” 

Benjamin said it had been his mother and his 
brother. Louie mused over this. 

“To think of they coming in a car,” was the result 
of her meditations. “ They’ve got money, haven't 
they, Ben ? ” He hadn't so far told her anything 
about them. 

He had to tell her now. “Yes, they are fairly 
well off.” 

Louie knew of an analogy. “ There's Gertie 
Poulter's uncle keeps a big establishment in Bir- 
mingham, with fifteen young ladies. He come down 
in his fur coat. Lor ! Don't it seem funny ! ” 

The inequalities of this world ; no, Benjamin, less 
detached than Louie, denied their humour. “ They 
can’t last, you know,” he told her ; but she, some- 
thing of a fatalist, sighed. 


42 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ I dunno. ’Arry and you talk away — but I say 
things don’t change much. An’ why should they ? ” 
Here her education was defective ; Benjamin was 
trying to instil into her a healthy impatience. If 
Hugh had been there he would have felt no remains 
of doubt as to why Benjie was marrying Louie 
Robinson. For Benjie was a born missionary, and 
here was a pupil ready to his hand, docile, not un- 
intelligent, and unconscious even of her need of 
enlightenment. More light, was Benjamin’s cry ; 
and he began to kindle the flame of knowledge for 
her here on the twilight road. He often did ; that 
was the form their conversation took. 

“ He’s a queer lad,” Louie often said of her lover, 
with no depreciation. “ He’s like ’Arry ; he thinks 
everything matters an awful lot. But it don't,” 
added Louie, out of her profounder wisdom and three 
extra years ; “ not much.” 

In return for his instruction this evening, she 
told him presently, “ Dot’s bad to-night.” 

Dot was twelve, and had tuberculosis in the hip, 
for which she had periodical operations in hospital. 
There wasn’t enough money to send her away to a 
home ; there wasn’t even enough money to feed her 
properly. She was coming to live with Benjamin 
and Louie when they were married ; that would be 
better for her. For Benjamin could afford better 
food than the Robinsons could ; he had a little 
money of his own, left him by a godfather, besides 
his earnings. It was that that gave him his sublime 
independence of his parents and the coal-mines. 


THE BUNTERS 


43 


" I’m sorry,” Benjamin said, his forehead con- 
tracting a little. He hated Dot to be bad ; she was 
such a small weak thing, and pain was so horrible. 
When he had charge of Dot he meant to do the very 
best for her that could be done ; but that wasn’t 
very much, he was afraid. The sorrows of the world 
were oppressing him more than usual this evening ; 
possibly it was the effect of Lady Lettice and Hugh 
and the motor. 

* f It will be better when we have her at the cottage, ’ ' 
said Benjamin, characteristically hopeful. He was 
always saying about evils, “ They will be better 
when ...” and Louie always answering, as now, 
“ Well, I dunno,” The Robinson family were pessi- 
mists. Only, while Harry railed at fate, Louie 
accepted it without complaint, as life. 

“ I am glad we are going to marry so soon,” said 
Benjamin. The vicar, passing close to them, thought, 
“ Poor lady. A fruitless afternoon’s work, ob- 
viously ; ” but only said “ Good-night.” 

Benjamin said, “ Oh, may I speak to you please. 
Good-night, Louie — ” and left her, and walked at the 
Vicar’s side. 

“ About my mother this afternoon,” said Ben- 
jamin. “I’m extremely sorry she bothered you.” 

“ She didn’t,” said the Vicar. “ I was delighted. 
But no use, I fear.” 

The boy was even younger than he had thought ; 
one has to be very young to apologise (with a blush) 
for one’s mother. 

“ Naturally not. I told her you weren’t like that.” 


44 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


" But I'm not sure I’m not, do you know, now I 
come to think of it. I should like to interfere with 
you, I believe — but what’s the use ? ” 

“ None, of course ... You think I’m wrong, 
then ? ” said Benjamin with indifferent curiosity. 

“ Wrong ? Now, how should I think so — or that 
you’re right ? These complicated cases — one leaves 
judgment to those familiar with all the data.” 

“ Do you quarrel, then, with the general principle 
involved ? ” 

“ Oh, I never quarrel with general principles. 
It’s like fighting air. There’s so much, you see, not 
by any means air, that one has to fight ; and if one is 
naturally a man of peace . . 

“You seem to share my brother’s position about 
principles,” said Benjamin, a little bitterly, because 
the world was an unprincipled place. 

“ I should think it improbable,” said Mr. Dunstan, 
who had seen Hugh in the car. “ Though, as my 
no doubt interesting position is not precisely clear to 
me, and your brother’s even less so, I can’t say for 
certain.” 

“ Oh, Hugh’s an empiricist of a sort.” 

“I see. Perhaps I am an empiricist of another 
sort — perhaps of no sort at all. You see, I'm not 
young enough to know. . . . Will you come in ? 
No ? Then good-night.” 

Benjamin went home. He had no patience with 
empiricists of any sort ; it was such a lazy, inco- 
herent thing to be. But the Vicar, of course, could 
not be one, because vicars are Christians, and 


THE BUNTERS 


45 


Christians aren’t empiricists ; they at least have to 
know where they think they are going and why ; 
they at least must believe in causes, and (in principle, 
if not in practice) lay everything, personal or other- 
wise, at the cause’s feet. 

That, at least, was Benjamin's idea of what 
Christians did ; but, being an honest person, he 
would have admitted ignorance of the subject. 


CHAPTER III 

THE ONE AND THE MANY 

Benjamin Bunter’s cousin Cecil and his brother 
Jerry, setting out from their respective colleges, met 
opposite St. Theodore’s Church, and bicycled out 
along the road to Wattles. They were nineteen ; 
and they had wavy brown hair and pale attractive 
faces, like the faces of clever babies, and broad fore- 
heads and intelligent hazel eyes that dreamed quite 
different dreams ; Jerry’s dreams being of things as 
he found them (because he was a poet, or actualist) 
and Cecil’s of things as she meant to make them 
(because she was a reformer, or theorist). 

This was their first term at Cambridge ; so it was 
good of them to spare time and interest to Benjamin. 

They discussed more important things as they 
bicycled to Wattles. Cecil said she had signed the 
articles of the Fabian Society yesterday. 

“ I wonder when you’re going to, Jerry.” 

Jerry said the Fabian Society had nothing to do 
with him ; he wasn’t interested in that sort of thing. 
His gentle, tranquil way of making such remarks 

46 


THE ONE AND THE MANY 


47 


could annoy nobody. But Cecil said, “You'll come 
to it. All respectable people must, if they think 
at all." 

Perhaps Jerry wasn't a respectable person ; or 
perhaps he didn’t think at all. At the moment he 
was thinking how inimitably the horizons of grey and 
brown land stretched to east and west. It takes some 
months of residence in Cambridgeshire to get used to 
that thought. 

“ Anyhow," Cecil added, “ it was silly of you not 
to come last night and hear Alec Potts. He was 
frightfully good." 

Jerry said he had been attending a lecture on 
stained glass at the Arts and Crafts Society, so 
couldn’t come to Alec Potts. “ Besides," he added, 
“ I was afraid he might be raucous." 

“You might have survived it," said Cecil, “ if he 
had been. But he's the gentlest person — little and 
fat and shy, and looks extraordinarily dull till he 
speaks. ... I should like Louie to hear him, because 
he’s so hopeful. I want to make Louie hopeful, don’t 
you. . . . Oh, you were there on Sunday, weren’t 
you ? How were they ? " 

Jerry considered. “ All right, I think." 

“ What did you talk about ? " 

Jerry tried to remember. “ Oh, I think I was 
telling Benjie about the last Clark lecture, partly. 
And he told me about those pedlars who sent him the 
kettle and the rabbit. They do such nice drawings. 
I want to get hold of them. They came to St. 
Martin’s last June, and sold drawings to people. 


48 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Some of them are extraordinarily nice. They did 
those of Benjie’s — you know ? ” 

“I know. That ripping cow, and the village green. 
Does Louie care about them ? ” 

“ I don’t know, I don’t remember that she said 
anything about them.” 

Cecil frowned. “ But Jerry — you musn’t ! ” 

“ What ? ” Jerry looked from the horizons in 
surprise. 

“ Mustn’t let Louie not say anything about things.” 

“ Oh. But why not ? And I don’t see that I can 
very well help it, can I ? ” Jerry was tranquilly 
surprised. 

“ Louie doesn’t mind, you know,” he added. “ I 
always suppose she likes it better, not talking. She’s 
a sort of quiet person, isn’t she ? One never feels she’s 
left out, because she’s always busy with something 
or other. In fact, one doesn’t remember that she’s 
there most of the time.” 

“ I know you don’t. That’s what I mean — you 
must remember that she’s there. I don’t know 
whether she minds or not, but anyhow that’s not the 
point.” 

“ I should have thought,” said Jerry, ” that it was 
the only point.” 

“ Well, it isn’t. The point is that we’re spoiling 
the whole idea — Benjie’s splendid idea — if we don’t 
let her in. That’s the scheme, don’t you see ; and 
we’ve got to help it on.” Cecil always found it an 
inspiring occupation, helping on Benjie’s splendid 
ideas. 


THE ONE AND THE MANY 


49 


“ To let her in — ” Jerry mused over it. “ But we do, 
don’t we ? Only she doesn’t come in. It’s her, isn’t it? ’* 
" It’s us too. We ought to drag her in. Oh, we 
can talk about drawings and Clark lectures as 
much as we like — the more the better, I daresay — 
only we’ve got to make her talk about them too.” 

After a pause for reflection Jerry enquired, “ Why ? 
I never like it when people try to make me talk about 
Free Trade. You wouldn’t like it if Louie made you 
talk about housework. Benjie doesn’t like it when 
people try to make him talk about hunting. So why 
should Louie have to talk about our things ? ” 

“ It’s the idea,” Cecil repeated. “ Of course it’s a 
difficult idea ; but its awfully fine. The equality 
idea, don’t you see? I mean, you can’t have a 
democracy till we can all come easily into other 
people’s lives and interests. . . 

Jerry said, “ But there is no equality, in your 
sense. You seem to mean unanimity — many minds 
with but a single thought — and that’s too dull ever to 
be true. If democracy means that, it would be 
horrible to have it. But if you want it, the shortest 
way is for you to come into Louie’s life and interests, 
not her into yours.” 

Cecil sighed. “ I believe I would, if I could. But 
it’s awfully difficult, Jerry. You don’t know, 
because you don’t try ; you just leave it alone and 
don’t bother. But I’m going to be friends with Louie, 
somehow or other. Only I’m such a duffer at her 
things, and she doesn’t care much about mine yet. 
Oh, it’ll be all right in time, of course.” 


50 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ It’s perfectly all right now/’ said Jerry, con- 
tentedly looking over the autumn fields. They were 
coming into Wattles, and Jerry loved Wattles. 

Cecil said, rather crossly, “ Jerry darling, you’re 
quite old enough now to stop thinking everything’s 
all right always. It isn’t, you see.” 

“ It’s usually good enough,” said Jerry, “ not to 
bother about.” Which was just where Hugh and 
Jerry differed from Benjie and his disciple Cecil. 

“ I believe in taking things as they come,” said 
Jerry, as they pushed their bicycles up the lane 
behind the forge. “ Things and people.” 

” I know you do,” Cecil had only time to return. 
“ For a boy with a head, your beliefs are the most 
futile. ...” 

Then Louie opened the cottage door, and they went 
in. Benjie was there too, and little Dot Robinson, and 
Mr. Robinson her father, who had called in. Mr. 
Robinson was out of work (parchment) just now ; he 
sometimes was. At these times Benjie and Louie 
saw a good deal of him. He was rather a nice man, 
with gentle brown eyes like Louie’s, but his mouth, 
beneath his unkempt beard, was weaker than hers. 

So they were a largish party ; but as they all had 
nice manners they settled down agreeably. They 
talked, of course, about the election, because there 
was just going to be one. Mr. Robinson was a radical ; 
Benjie and Cecil put not their trust in parties ; the 
party system was a futile relic of barbarism, and 
one party very nearly as bad as the other ; Louie 
believed Benjie ; and Jerry didn’t hold with politics. 


THE ONE AND THE MANY 


5i 


Mr. Bunter senior was standing as a conservative in 
East Norfolk, which wasn’t right, or course, but he 
was too old to know better. 

“ Hugh’s helping, with the new motor,” said Cecil, 
disparaging Hugh and the new motor, though one 
couldn’t disparage one’s cousin’s father to them, 
however benighted. For Hugh wasn’t too old to 
know better ; in fact, he probably did know better, 
only Hugh was devoid of principles. 

Mr. Robinson, whose interests were local, said, 
" Cotton’s the man. Cotton’s the chap. Ay.” 
Cotton was the chap who was standing in the liberal 
interest for West Cambridgeshire. 

Benjie said, " Well, it’ll be a near thing, I should 
say.” 

Louie said, “ There’s a rare lot of cars about. A 
proper fuss they make, don’t they?” 

Jerry said, “Oh, good. Raspberry jam for tea.” 

Cecil said she was going to stand at the polls and 
help to get signatures to a suffrage petition. 

Mr. Robinson said, “ No ; are ye now? The Vote. 
Well now, what d’ye want with a vote ? I’ll be bound 
Louie’d have no use for that, would you, Louie ? ” 

Louie said, “ Lor ! They do make a rare fuss, them 
ladies in London, don’t they?” 

It seemed that her attitude towards the world’s 
problems was detached ; they were rather a 
spectacle to her than anything with which she 
was concerned. 

All respectable people, of course, want the vote ; 
so Cecil, with an eye to Louie, answered Mr Robinson’s 


52 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


question, taking pains to be lucid and slow, because 
Benjie had told her that she talked much too fast 
for Louie as a rule, particularly when she was in- 
terested. The chief point she was anxious to explain 
was that one would of course be satisfied with no 
mean Conciliation bill, no playing into the hands of 
the aristocracy. Democracy before sex ; adult 
manhood and womanhood suffrage, no less. . . . 

Mr. Robinson moved on the lower levels. He 
even said, “Votes. Husbands, that’s what I say. 
Eh, Louie ? ’’ 

Cecil, who had gathered vaguely from Benjie that 
the Robinsons were an enlightened family (though 
as a matter of fact Benjie had never used this 
adjective to describe them), blushed, and looked at 
Louie to see what she made of her father. Nothing 
much, it seemed ; Louie was putting milk in the 
second cups of tea. Benjie was looking on with a 
curious, doubtful expression. Jerry looked bored, 
and his eyes, meeting Cecil’s, conveyed, " How can 
you raise subjects that open doors to such vulgar 
inanity ? And you see it’s no good ; she won’t be 
let in.” 

At that Cecil was goaded into. “ I say, Louie, 
you are on the right side, aren’t you ? ” 

Louie was busy with the tea-pot. Benjie was 
pouring in hot water for her, and she was anxious 
that he should stop at the right moment. 

“ Cecil is asking,” Benjie told her, as he replaced 
the kettle, “ whether you want a vote.” 

Benjie often had to interpret Cecil, who talked too 


THE ONE AND THE MANY 


53 


fast, and assumed that those she addressed had been 
listening to the previous conversation — a double 
error ; one should only do one of these things at once. 

To the question thus clarified, Louie replied, “ A 
vote ? Why, Ben and ’Arry say we must have them ; 
and I'm sure I don’t mind. That don’t make much 
difference, as I can see.” 

“ Oh dear,” said Cecil, " you’re as bad as Jerry. 
Don’t you like to be in things, not out of them ? It’s 
so — so much jollier. Don’t you hate having to watch 
a hockey match ? It's so cold and dull, and you want 
to be playing so frightfully badly. It’s like that 
with politics, don’t you think ? ” 

But, as Louie had never watched a hockey match, 
she didn’t know. She smiled at Cecil with her indul- 
gent, patient eyes, that comprehended either every- 
thing or nothing, and repeated her formula, “ Well — 
I dunno.” 

There was something at once baffling and baffled 
about Louie. It was as if, giving up all solutions of 
immediate problems, she fell back on some wisdom of 
the ages. By her side the three Bunters had the air 
of intelligent babies eating slices of bread and 
raspberry jam. 

Cecil sighed, and puckered her large child's fore- 
head. Not politics, then. And not hockey matches. 
And not making horse shoes, because Jerry was talking 
about that to Benjie now, and when Cecil said she 
was awfully keen to learn how, and asked Louie if 
she could do it, Louie said — well, said she couldn't, 
and implied she didn’t want to. Not to want to play 


54 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


with soft white iron, bending it about like putty — 
a curious person, Louie. Cecil wondered what she 
did want to do. 

As she wondered, Benjie, who was fond of playing 
with his kettle, spilt boiling water over his hand ; and 
Louie, turning suddenly as white as a white rabbit, 
caught in her breath and upset her chair backwards, 
and ran to him, and held the scalded hand between 
hers and cried, “ Oh, the vaseline out of the cupboard, 
quick,” then got it herself, and spread it on, and 
bound it round with a handkerchief. Then she 
looked up into Benjie’s face with brown, tender eyes ; 
and Cecil, seeing her look, was suddenly caught right 
out of the world of ideas into some other world, more 
direct, more simple, more coherent, more intense. 
The only awkward thing about it was that it wasn't 
the Bunters’ world ; they remained in their own. 
What would be the result if a chess-player’s pawns 
up and said they were alive, and must count as 
persons, not as pawns at all ? The player might 
return imploringly, “ Can’t you be both, then ?” and 
they would probably say they couldn’t, and so either 
the game or the pawns would abruptly cease to be. 

Anyhow, Cecil wondered no more what Louie 
cared for ; she cared for Benjie. 

Jerry said, “ Now shall we look at the rabbit ? ” 
and they all went out into the little garden and gazed 
at the rabbit in his house. He was a single rabbit, 
because, as Louie put it, they do increase so, rabbits 
do. He had come in a hutch by rail, with a wife, 
addressed to Benjie, with a note round his neck, 


THE ONE AND THE MANY 


55 


" Would you like to have our rabbits ? They aren’t 
happy in London. They are called Umberto and 
Elena.” Elena was given to a kind home, and 
Umberto was established in the cottage garden and 
fed with cabbages, and Benjie cleaned out his hutch 
regularly. 

“ They give a rare lot of bother, rabbits do,” 
Louie had said. Benjie, if he had been asked face to 
face “ Would you like a rabbit ? ” as he had been 
once asked, “ Would you like carpet slippers or a tin 
basin ? ” would have said no. But the fact of there 
being no one to say no to — not even an address — 
hampered him. He felt responsible for Umberto, 
thus thrust confidently at him out of an irresponsible 
world wherein he had no part. So Umberto sat in 
the garden, and twitched his nose, and the Bunters 
looked at him and judged him. 

“ Eats ’is ’ead off, ’e does,” said Mr. Robinson, 
disparagingly. 

“ I haven’t yet thought of a job one can put him 
to,” said Benjie, who would have liked Umberto to be 
in Class I (those who did work and liked it). 

“ Rabbits,” Cecil decided, after watching him, 
“ have very few interests beyond cabbage.” 

" I wouldn’t keep him shut up,” said Jerry. “ Wild 
rabbits are nicer.” 

Louie said, “Wild rabbits in my vegetable bed ! ” 
and added that Dot was fond of Umberto, so she 
supposed it was all right. 

“ Oh, I’m fond of him myself,” said Benjie ; 
< only I wish I could put him to a job.” 


56 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ Eats ’is 'ead off, ’e does,” said Mr. Robinson. 

“ But Mr. Robinson,” said Cecil to Jerry as they 
rode home, “is as bad as Umberto. Why doesn’t 
Benjie put him to a job ? ” 

“ Oh. I don’t suppose he likes jobs,” said Jerry, 
tolerantly. “He’s getting old ; he must be fifty or 
sixty. It’s awfully sad for a man of that age to 
have to go on working, when I daresay he never liked 
work. I shan’t work after I’m old ; I shall sit about 
like that, and have lots of time.” 

“ You do now,” said Cecil, with contempt. “Just 
like that ... I wish Louie would call us by our 
names. It’s all wrong as long as she shirks that. All 
this is such a splendid opportunity, Jerry; and I feel as 
if we were somehow missing it, or not making the most 
of it. I wish ’Arry liked us more. It's so stupid of 

him. As if it was our fault ” 

“ Oh, but I don’t think I like him much ; do you ? 
Because of his expression, you know ; and the way he 
talks. He’s such a discontented sort of man.” 

“ So would you be if you were him. You've no 
business to dislike him. He’s every business to 
dislike us, because we stand for all the hateful things 
that spoil his life. Only he ought to see that we’re 
trying to disconnect ourselves ; that what we really 
want to stand for is something quite different.” 

Cecil and Benjie were always standing for some- 
thing ; they perhaps took after Mr. Bunter the elder, 
who, too old to know better, was even now standing 
for East Norfolk, on the wrong side. 

Jerry watched the lights of Cambridge, beacons 


THE ONE AND THE MANY 


57 


over the dark plains. Was the effect of Cambridge 
to merge personality in causes ? And were people 
units, or did they really come each heading a great 
army like unto themselves only more so, so that one 
must accept or reject the person on the merits of his 
background of myrmidons ? People opened doors 
into ideas ; that was certain. But did the ideas 
matter because of the people, or the people because of 
the ideas ? 

Cecil was sure ; but Jerry wasn’t, and was too 
young to speculate much. Everything that was 
beautiful mattered, and nothing that wasn’t ; that 
was all Jerry knew. And for beauty one wanted 
form and colour rather than abstractions ; Jerry was 
no Platonist. And beauty was permanent — the One 
that remains, while the Many change and pass. 
Both Cecil and Jerry knew that ; the only question 
was, which was the One and which the Many ? Was 
it people that stood in the white radiance of eternity, 
beyond the dome of many-coloured glass that 
prisoned and held the fluctuating chaos of ideas ? 
Or was it ideas that thus transcended humanity’s 
bounds and shone as fixed stars in an eighth heaven, 
to steer the ships by ? 

That might be an immeasurably important 
question ; it probably was. But at the moment the 
only question the Bunters were confronted with was, 
where were their lights ? One can never answer this ; 
pedantically considered, it is an enquiry not well 
worded ; for in what sense can a light not called into 
existence be said to be yours ? Jerry, who was 


58 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


disproportionately worried by incorrect language,said, 
“ I don’t know what you mean. We have no lights, 
just now. I suppose what you mean is, why haven’t 
we ? That is because we didn’t bring our lamps with 
us, not knowing we should be out so late.” Having 
thus satisfied their feeling for precise expression, 
they gave their names and addresses. 

“ I like bobbies,” said Cecil in a few minutes, as 
they got on again. " They’re so splendidly in the 
right.” 

But Jerry said, “ I suppose there are bobbies and 
bobbies,” which seemed to open again the eternal 
question, between the bobby per se and the bobby in 
his representative capacity. 


CHAPTER IV 
fortune’s wheel 

The Crevequers came home to their lodgings in 
Page Street a little before midnight on the evening of 
the fifth of April. They had engagements at the 
moment as members of the chorus in a musical 
comedy ; that is to say, Tommy had every evening 
to wear a top hat and a frock coat and stand in a row 
with eleven other gentlemen ; and from time to 
time all twelve stepped forward and lifted their hats 
from their heads and echoed in unanimous melody 
some asseveration of a principal character’s, altering 
the personal pronoun from the first to the third. It 
was a very simple and not unamusing way of earning 
money. Betty’s function was similar, only she wore 
a sunbonnet instead of a top hat. Then at the end 
gentlemen and ladies all danced round the stage, and 
the evening ended in harmonious gaiety. The 
Crevequers were very lucky to have got this job, 
though it was only temporary. What with it and 
with Tommy’s sketches, life was running fairly 
easily ; and the Crevequers never looked ahead more 
than a week, because things were sure to turn up. 

59 


6o 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


They came home to-night a little tired but well-fed, 
having been to a supper party given by another 
chorus gentleman and lady to celebrate their mar- 
riage. They let themselves into their home, entered 
their tiny sitting-room, which, in the words of one of 
their favourite classics, was as dark as hell and smelt 
of cheese, turned on the gas, and found a letter on the 
floor. The Crevequers liked getting letters ; they 
approached them with the freshness of anticipation 
of the very young. This one was for Tommy, who 
opened it, read it through, put his hand to his brow 
after the manner of stage heroes, and said, “ Let us 
try and understand.” He sat down on the table to 
tackle the subject seriously, and Betty sat by him, 
and both tried to understand, and their two faces, 
with their knitted black brows, and smiles tucked 
away as momentarily irrelevant, were as alike as two 
musical comedies. 

They both understood simultaneously, and looked 
up and met each other’s eyes. 

“ D-do you see ? ” enquired Tommy, stam- 
mering excitedly. “ He’s dead, our Cousin Arthur 
is, and he's 1-left us all his money. All. It says 
all, Betty.” 

Betty nodded, and the tucked-up smile broke into 
a dimple. “ Tommy ! ” 

That was all she could say for the moment. They 
sat on the table and chuckled at one another. 

“ Thousands and thousands of pounds,” said 
Betty, at last. " How f-frightfully nice of him, 
though. I suppose he had no other relations. Or 


FORTUNE'S WHEEL 


61 


perhaps he knew we needed it most. I didn’t 
know he was dead, did you, Tommy ? " 

“I’d forgotten that he was alive. But I remember 
him now, quite well, don’t you ? Those holidays we 
stayed with him — years and years ago. He must 
have liked us, Betty. Did we like him ? I can’t 
remember. But his house was jolly. Oh, that was 
where we rode the pigs, I believe. All over the lawn 
and the flower beds — and the gardener was a stupid 
man.” 

“ I remember. No, Tommy, Cousin Arthur didn’t 
like us. He never asked us again after that. I 
expect he liked father or something — or perhaps he’d 
forgotten about the pigs when he died. I suppose 
really there was no one else he could possibly leave 
it to. But how awfully nice of him to think of us ! 
Oh, I wish we could thank him, don’t you ? ” 

“ We’ll have a mass for him on Friday, shall we . . . 
To-morrow I’m to go and see this lawyer man, 
apparently. I hope he’ll let us have it at once.” 

“ Oh, Tommy ! ” Betty gasped a little at the 
tremendous thought. “ How very wonderful ! We 
shall be rich — rolling. Oh, do let’s come out and 
settle what to do with it. You don’t want to go to 
bed, do you ? Let’s come out on to the Embankment, 
and think.” 

On a seat on the Embankment, in the wan light of 
a waning Easter moon, they sat and thought. 

“No more w-work, Tommy.” 

“ A motor. T-two motors ; one each. We can 
have races.” 


62 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ New hats. New shoes. Me a new umbrella. 
I shall d-drop my old one down a grating. Let’s 
drop a whole lot of things down gratings, Tommy. 
The people below might be pleased to have them. 
Or into the river, and see them float down. We 
might have brought some out now . . . Tommy, 
shall we be really well-dressed in future ? Or not ? 
What do you think ? ” 

“ We must think it over later. Yes ; I think 
perhaps we will. I like to be well dressed. I shall 
have a lot of waistcoats.” 

“ Oh, Tommy! ” Betty jumped up. “ Luli, and 
Gina, and all of them ! They must have some. Let’s 
go home rather soon and see them, and make them 
take some. And some of the people here too. Par- 
ticularly Vi and Norman, don’t you think ? ” 

“ Of course. And that blacksmith who’s got 
Umberto and Elena ; he must have a lot.” 

At that Betty looked for the first time doubtful. 

“ I hope he will. We must put it very nicely to 
him, because he might be tiresome. We’ll say it’s 
to pay for the rabbits’ keep. I do hope he’ll take 
it ; he was such a dear. But he looked at every- 
thing such a funny way round, didn’t he.” 

“ Oh, he only pretended to, because he was poor 
and didn’t want us to know he minded. He’ll take 
it all right, if we do it tactfully. I’ve been rather 
anxious about those rabbits really ; they do eat such 
an awful lot. And not everybody likes rabbits. I 
hope he hasn’t minded. We must make it up to 
him.” 


FORTUNE’S WHEEL 


63 


Betty’s eyes were dancing hilariously. “ Oh, 
Tommy, I’ve thought of something ! We’ve got 
Cousin Arthur’s house, I suppose. How frightfully 
funny ! We’ll live in it, and have real servants.” 

Tommy slapped the bench and chuckled. “ I say, 
Betty, we’ll ask people to stay. All kinds of people, 
all at once.” 

“ The rabbit man, and Vi and Norman, and Luli 
and Gina and the rest — no, we won’t, we’ll have them 
at Santa Caterina, and only have English people to 
Cousin Arthur’s. Hurrah ! We can live at Santa 
Caterina as much as we like now.” 

“ Except that the present tenants have got the 
house on a two years’ lease. Never mind ; we can 
travel all about the place meanwhile. One should see 
the world, Betty ; it widens one’s intellectual and 
psychological outlook.” This was an echo from 
some voice of the past, and Betty’s eyes grew more 
solemn. 

“ We can stay at Parker’s Hotel, Tommy. And 
have the Lower Orders to lunch. I believe in keeping 
up one’s Intimate Contact with the People, don’t 
you ? . . . But most of all I want to make the kettle 
man happier. Because he was so nice, and didn’t 
seem to understand a bit about anything, did he, 
and his time was all full of stupid jobs that he had to 
pretend to like, and he didn’t like fairs because they 
spoilt the next day’s work. It would be nice to give 
him a holiday.” 

" Give them all a holiday,” Tommy murmured, 
getting sleepily incoherent, and referring presumably 


64 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


to toiling humanity at large. “ Holiday for every- 
one — for always. Let’s go to bed.” 

The wan moon was setting, because it was two 
o’clock. Before it set, Benjamin Bunter’s son was 
born. His maternal grandfather sat in the parlour 
and groaned when he heard the news, because a man 
had been born into the world, to trouble as the sparks 
fly upward. 

But the man’s father was glad. He had wanted a 
son. A son could better than a daughter bear his 
share in the world’s battle, as things were at present. 
A daughter would have wrung his heart for pity, with 
her mother bearing her own too heavy share upstairs. 

When the whimpering creature was put into his 
arms, he studied its countenance earnestly and with 
hope. Babies, of course, are babies ; that is to say, 
one baby is much the same as another, even to the 
earnest observer ; though Benjamin did certainly 
comment, “ He seems a fairly nice one as they go, 
doesn’t he ? ” But though his baby was only fairly 
nice as an individual, it was a little emblem of 
futurity, carrying all the triumph of humanity in its 
tiny curled-up fists. What a career was bundled up 
in this woolly shawl ! What an honest man’s life of 
toil and hard living, and bread eaten in the sweat of 
the brow ! Give them all work. Work for everyone 
— for always. So Benjamin reversed the Crevequer’s 
millennium. 

“ Ah,” sighed Mr. Robinson, who had been getting 
more and more maudlin as the night advanced. 
“Ah, he’s uncommon like Louie, the poor scrap. 


FORTUNE'S WHEEL 65 

An' like me. Louie always favoured me. Eh, 
mother ? " 

Mrs. Robinson was a pale, weak, faded woman, 
who in past days had taken in washing to keep her 
husband and family, but had now given that up, 
because Benjamin kept them instead. She was a 
pessimist always, and to-night, tired with her vigil, 
she said despondently, “ There's no good fortune in 
his favouring you, the poor mite. I'm sure I 'ope 
that'll be more of a man than you ever was, if 'e ever 
lives to grow up, which it ain't likely, the lamb. Give 
'im me, Ben. There, the petsie ; straight back to 'is 
pore mother 'e shall go, yes 'e shall." 

When the petsie had departed, Mr. Robinson said, 
" Pore mother ; she’s fair wore out, and doesn't 
mean 'alf she says. Women, Ben, is strange 
creatures. You never know when you’ll get the 
rough side of their tongue, an’ all for nothin’, as it 
were. You find the same, I shouldn't wonder." 

“ I don’t," said Benjamin, “ know many women 
intimately." 

“ Ah well, Louie's a good girl ; I'll say that. An' 
she's rare set on you, Ben." 

Benjie blushed, and jingled the things in his pockets. 

“ I don’t see why we shouldn’t go to bed now," he 
said. He helped his father-in-law to rise, and con- 
ducted him out of the house, and accompanied him 
down the road to his own abode. This was a nightly 
ceremony. Mr. Robinson spent most of the day- 
time at his son-in-law’s cottage, but he couldn't 
sleep there, as there was no bed for him. 

F 


66 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Benjie returned alone through the dark early 
morning. He was extraordinarily tired. He had 
been getting more and more tired latterly. It 
was a new experience to him. Perhaps it was having 
all the housework to do, now Louie was ill ; perhaps 
it was the more continual presence of Mr. and Mrs. 
Robinson ; perhaps it was anxiety ; perhaps, as 
the Crevequers said, he wanted a holiday. 

He was too tired to go to bed. He sat at the table 
and leant his head on his hands, and listened to the 
thin wailing above the ceiling. Poor Louie ! All 
that pain and trouble and illness to produce one 
more life. Yet it must be worth it. That was the 
burden of Benjamin’s thoughts to-night — how it was 
worth it ; how one must allow no treacherous voice 
to whisper that it wasn’t. Citizenship — the propa- 
gation of the best part of the race, the working part — 
the breaking down of the hideous fences between 
man and man — liberty through service — that was the 
heritage into which the crying infant had come. 
There still the ideals shone, star-like, the realities of 
an incoherent world. For the world was a little 
incoherent ; Benjie, who hadn’t admitted that a 
year ago, admitted it now. A year ago he had seen 
the world as a puzzle map that didn’t puzzle him ; it 
only wanted putting together ; each part fitted all 
right into the scheme if properly placed. Now — 
was it the entering in of the personal factor that had 
made the difference ? — it was a puzzle map that did 
a little puzzle him ; and the putting together of the 
pieces was less simple. Perhaps it was merely being 


FORTUNE'S WHEEL 67 

tired ; the united weight of the Robinson family 
was pressing upon him rather heavily. 

He went to sleep in his chair, his head on his flung- 
out arms, till the morning sun wok'e him. Then he 
went and saw Louie, who was lying smiling at the 
baby. She smiled at Benjie too, triumphantly. 

“ There 'e is,” she whispered. “ You wanted 'im, 
didn’t you? ” (“ I've done my duty, haven’t I ? ” she 
might have put it.) 

“ Rather, I did,” the boy answered her, peering 
with interest at the black head. “ I say, let’s call 
him John.” 

Louie was perhaps disappointed, but acquiesced. 
“ Oh, all right. I’d thought as, unless we named 'im 
for dad, or for some o’ your people, we’d have Stanley, 
or Albert, or Wilfred. But it's as you say.” 

“ Don’t like Wilfred,” said Benjie. " I’ve got a 
beastly cousin called that. He wears his hair too 
long, and wriggles, and complains when the incense at 
his churches smells cheap. And Stanley and Albert 
simply aren’t used, you know, for our sort of baby.” 
(For the moment Benjie had forgotten, apparently, 
what sort of baby theirs was to be.) “ We’ll call him 
after your father, if you like, but I rather like each 
person in a family to have a separate name, myself. 
It’s less confusing. Now John’s short and simple, 
and easy to remember.” 

“ John, then,” said Louie. “ But, bless the mite, 
I’d remember 'is name whatever it was. Ain’t that 
a darlin’, Ben ? ” 

“ I thought he seemed awfully nice,” said Benjie. 


68 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ Though its very early to tell, of course. But he’s 
sure to be nice, because we shall bring him up nicely. 
It nearly all depends on that really, you know. We'll 
teach him the right way of looking at things ; make 
him a gritty, self-respecting little beggar. I hope 
he’s got a head. It’ll be awfully interesting to watch 
him developing, and to see what we can make of him.” 

Louie smiled indulgently at both of them. She 
had performed her function, played her part in 
Benjie’s scheme faithfully. Already the bundle in 
her arms had brought a renewed coherence into the 
puzzle map. 

But a week later Mr. Robinson gave John a drink 
of beer and a bit of red herring, knowing that babies 
like a little bit of whatever we get, and coherence 
broke up into chaos. For they could never watch 
John developing after all, and the scheme was broken 
and marred. 

Benjamin, tender in his own unhappiness, would 
have comforted Louie with his awkward boy’s arms, 
but she would not look at him. She lay very still 
and quiet, and travelled down into the deeps alone. 
Her first remark when he came to her was curious. 

" We’ve spoilt it all for you,” she said, tonelessly, 
and he didn’t know what she meant, or how she 
vaguely saw the Robinson family and herself in chief 
as pawns in his game. She, one of the pawns, had 
captured a queen for him ; her father had thrown the 
queen away, and spoilt the game. Incidentally, she 
had lost her little baby — but that was her own 
private pain, and irrelevant. 


FORTUNE’S WHEEL 


69 


Irrelevant, as were all her personal concerns ; and 
so bitter that it cannot be more than referred to 
here. Life settled down as before in a few weeks, and 
Louie went about the house as of old, silent, indus- 
trious, patient, more apologetic than before, with 
miserable eyes. And every evening Mr. Robinson sat 
in the parlour and groaned, and said he could never 
forgive himself, not 'owever many more they ’ad. 

John's birth and death had taken place in the 
Easter holidays. When the May term began, Cecil 
came over, a helpless, startled child in the face of 
issues beyond her, longing to comfort and finding no 
way. Their great object, she told Jerry, must be to 
give Louie fresh interests — anything to keep her from 
brooding. So she took over books, and offered them 
tentatively. Some of them she liked herself, such 
as Bernard Shaw’s plays ; others she thought Louie 
might like, such as “ Wisdom and Destiny,” and 
Stevenson's essays. 

" It's very kind of you, I'm sure," said Louie, 
gently apathetic. " But I’m not one to read much. 
And Ben reads to me of an evenin’ usually, somethin’ 
he’s readin' himself. He likes to do that ; an’ I’m 
glad he should." 

Cecil asked, "What is he reading?" and Louie 
thought " that was somethin’ about some revolution 
in France, just now ; but there, it didn't seem to 
matter what it was, it cheered Ben up to read 
anythin’ " In fact, now that John's educational 
development had been frustrated, Louie was the 
more passionately offering herself on the sacrificial 


70 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


altar in his stead. Ben should have someone to 
educate, if it was only her. Ben liked to think that 
he and she were interested in the same things, learn- 
ing together ; that was the ideal of equal married 
life, and Ben devoted himself whole-heartedly to 
realising his ideals. 

“ Why Maeterlinck ? ” he enquired of Cecil, finding 
“ Wisdom and Destiny " on the table. Cecil couldn’t 
quite explain why. She had a feeling that Maeter- 
linck might just “ do for ” Louie, in her present stage. 
When one is feeling weak and wistful and distressed, 
Maeterlinck sometimes steps in as a comforter. Only 
sometimes ; at other times he is the last straw. But 
Cecil remembered that when her puppy had died 
three years ago, and a year later when she had 
discovered that one couldn’t believe the Creed, 
Maeterlinck had been a help. She was tired of him 
now ; but then Louie couldn’t be tired of him, and 
he might open a new world to her, and take her 
through the magic door into the World of Ideas, 
where babies don’t die of red herring, or, if they do, 
the Sage doesn't really mind, because it all turns to 
his good. Was Louie a Sage ? Well, anyone can 
learn to be, Cecil supposed. And the Sage is the 
better for his suffering ; he emerges enlarged and 
purified, which must be an immense comfort for 
him. 

Jerry, being a boy, came over as usual, and talked 
as usual to Benjie, and never referred to John ; 
He had been very sorry about John ; but babies, 
of course, will come and go ; it is their nature ; and 


FORTUNE’S WHEEL 


7i 


Jerry never thought of their being much missed, 
till Cecil told him that Louie and Benjie were dread- 
fully unhappy. Then Jerry wondered if it would 
interest Louie to go in for competitions in the 
Westminster Gazette. 

“ Don’t suppose she can write anything,” said 
Cecil dubiously. 

“ Anybody can try,” said Jerry, truly. 

“ But she wouldn’t get a prize ever, Jerry, and 
that’s so disappointing.” 

Jerry said, “ How do you know ? She may be 
much better than you think. She may be a poet 
without knowing it.” 

Cecil was rather interested in that idea. The poor 
are often poets without knowing it, of course. So 
they took over the Saturday Westminster to Wattles 
on Sunday, and showed Louie the Problems page, 
and how there was a prize offered for a new and 
original English poem called “ Sitting on a Gate.” 

“ Me ! I dunno a thing about it,” said Louie, 
turning the heel of a stocking. “ I wouldn’t know 
how to make a start.” 

“ Oh, Louie, it’s awfully easy. You just start 
with the first thing you think of, then the rest follows 
on. Think how interesting a subject it is — a gate, 
you know,, and you might get down on either side — 
and there you are sitting on it, both the sides sort of 
belonging to you.” 

“ I dunno,” said Louie, rethreading her needle, 
“ as I ever felt particular like that, on gates. And 
anyhow, I don’t think in po’try. Never did. ’Arry 


72 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


does, sometimes. But what he writes isn’t about 
gates ; that’s more about money, an’ the pore man, 
and such.” 

“ I wish he’d show me some,” said Cecil, who was 
a good deal interested in ’Arry. 

“ It’s absurd,” she said afterwards to Jerry, “ to 
expect Louie to write anything yet, of course. She 
hasn’t properly learnt to take in yet, and no one 
can give out till they’ve learnt that. I’m not going 
to write any more verse or anything for a long time 
myself, for the same reason.” 

Jerry, who didn’t think Cecil’s verse very good, 
thought that was just as well. His own he liked 
much better ; Cecil always seemed to him to have 
ideas she wanted to express, and to be putting them 
into verse form ; whereas he achieved melody, and 
let it open out into ideas. And Jerry liked his own 
way best. 

But it seemed that Louie, though the poor are often 
poets without knowing it, was minded to no expres- 
sion of her probable gift. Instead, she did the house- 
work (together with Benjie, who rather liked washing 
up and scrubbing) and gardened, and brooded, and 
often sat quite still in the little garden with stout 
Umberto in her arms. 

When the Crevequers came, in their new motor 
car, that was what they found her doing. It was 
on a merry May day that they came, about sunset. 
They got out of the car, and stood at the forge door 
with the golden west at their backs and friendly 
laughter in their eyes, and wonderful new clothes 


FORTUNE’S WHEEL 


73 


upon them. Tommy’s waistcoat was very fancy 
indeed, and Betty’s motoring coat a lovely vivid 
blue. They had always loved bright things, and 
now they had got them. 

They said to Benjie, " Oh, how are you, and how 
are Umberto and Elena ? We meant to write to 
you, but we n-never did. And now we’ve come 
instead. Did you hear that we are f-frightfully 
rich ? Look at our motor car. And we have a house 
in Suffolk, all our own, and we want you to come and 
stay with us. Wouldn't it be rather fun ? And will 
you come a drive, now ? But first, may we go and 
see Umberto and Elena ? We can take them away 
now, if you would like us to ; we have a large garden 
now for them. Only we don’t want to if you would 
like to keep them.” 

Benjamin was smiling at them, and frowning a 
little over dazzled eyes. The gold of the west was 
so bright, and so were the Crevequers’ new clothes. 

“ Come and see,” he said, and led the way up the 
lane, in his shirt-sleeves and leather apron. 

“ Elena,” he explained, “ isn’t here. She lives 
at a neighbouring house — the doctor’s. But I have 
Umberto, and he is well and cheerful. My wife, 
you see, has him on her lap.” 

The Crevequers hadn't known that Benjamin had 
a wife, but accepted the fact without surprise, like 
everything else. She certainly must be a nice person, 
because she had Umberto on her lap. Besides, 
wasn’t nearly everybody nice, in this best of all possible 
worlds ? They smiled at her in their friendly way. 


74 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


" Has he been good ? ” Betty asked. " And 
would you like to go on keeping him? ’’ 

“ They sent us Umberto, Louie/' Benjamin ex- 
plained. 

Louis rose, bewildered. Benjie had told her that 
Umberto came from vagrants, pedlars in a van. 
These resplendent little people were more like Ben’s 
own people, only more resplendent and more — well, 
somehow much more transparently pleased with 
themselves and everyone and everything else. The 
world, under their smiles, seemed to turn somersaults 
and stand on its head, and become a huge, insane 
joke. 

Louie held out Umberto towards them, slowly. 
But Betty, seeing her eyes, grew suddenly grave 
and a little troubled. 

“ Oh, no, please keep him. You will, won’t you ? 
D-do ! ” 

Louie drew back Umberto, and held him against 
her breast. 

Betty said, “ We’re so glad you've got him. He 
looks so happy, doesn’t he, Tommy?" The trouble 
was still in her eyes — something of pathos, pity, 
wistful appeal. Out of the radiance of their own joy 
of living, it was as if they were crying to Louie the 
desolate, “ Oh, be happy, do be happy. Can’t we 
think of anything to make it better for you ? ’’ 

What they did think of was “ Come a drive 
with us— just a little one ! Wouldn’t it be rather 
fun ? We’ve got a motor car, a quite new one. We 
have so many new things ; everything we want we 


FORTUNE'S WHEEL 


75 


get. We've just been to a dog show and bought 
puppies. They’re in the car — such darlings. Having 
money is grand. We live in a real house. It has 
servants. They come when we ring the bells. They 
lay meals on the dining-room table, all day. But 
we don’t eat all of them. No one could, you know. 
And we like often to have food somewhere else, in 
the stables or somewhere. If you come and stay 
with us you shall choose where to have the meals. 
Do come. We have such a nice garden. It’s full of 
animals, and places for games — croquet and bowls 
and tennis, and real things like that. We’re learning 
to play them, though we aren’t good. Do you like 
that sort of game ? If not, there’s a giant stride and 
a see-saw and a stream to sail boats down. And you 
can get on the roof. Or j ust sit about and do nothing. ’ ’ 

“ Thank you,” said Benjie, when he could. " It’s 
kind of you. But we’re rather tied here, I’m afraid.” 

On principle, he didn’t stay in the houses of the 
rich. 

It came back to the Crevequers that this queer 
young man put work before play. They sighed over 
it. 

“ It is such a pity. Can’t you come ? ” they asked 
Louie, who most needed comfort. But Louie shook 
her head. 

“ It’s kind of you,” she echoed, apathetically. 

Here was an impasse. It was the eternal problem 
of the rich, who stand full-handed, helpless, before 
the unreceiving poor. The fact that there are as 
well the vast crowd of the receiving (potentially 


76 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


receiving) poor is as nothing when some one personal 
relation thus proves unavailing. The Bunters wouldn’t 
come and play with the Crevequers ; and yet the 
Bunters so manifestly needed to play with someone, 
since, it seemed, they were so far failing to play with 
life by themselves. Benjie’s chin and brows were 
more stubborn and unyielding than they had been 
last summer ; oddly, poignantly at variance with 
them was a new touch of painful bewilderment that 
had crept into his direct blue look. He looked like 
a brave child who will go under without a cry — if the 
insupportable weight of his own beliefs should sink 
him. And Louie clasped a rabbit, with her arms 
still empty and her eyes tired. 

The sight of them made Betty Crevequer want to 
cry. 

Tommy begged them again to come out in the 
motor. And this they consented to do. Benjie 
disapproved of motors ; but to refuse would have 
been like saying to affectionate children, “ I won’t 
play with you.” 

They ran along the Ely road, while the sun 
sank out of sight in a golden sky behind little 
willows, and every pool of water lay burnished in 
the fields, and cuckoos shouted hilariously, and 
Tommy drove absurdly, and Louie’s colour bright- 
ened in the wind, and Benjie, who was good at 
machinery, set the car going again when it failed, 
and became so much interested in it that he forgot 
it was a juggernaut of the shameless rich, and only 
thought of it as a mechanical toy. 


FORTUNE’S WHEEL 


77 


Before they came back they had supper at an 
inn. It seemed to be still a fresh and exciting 
experience to the Crevequers to be able to order 
meals without regard to finance. Their method of 
procedure was to ask each of their guests what their 
favourite dish was. Benjie said bread and cheese ; 
Louie said she like a bit o' bacon ; and tea, of course ; 
Betty wanted mushrooms, only it wasn’t the season, 
or trifle, only there wasn’t any, so had to fall back 
on bananas and sardines. Tommy wanted rabbit 
and onions. So they ordered enough of each of 
these things for all, that no one should covet other 
people’s choice — except the drinks, which were more 
specialised, the Crevequers, in default of wine, 
drinking black coffee, and Benjamin beer. 

After the meal they ran back to Wattles in the 
twilight, and the Bunters returned home. 

The Crevequers’ last words were, “ If ever you 
feel you will come and stay with us, do come. Don’t 
let us know or anything ; just come. Merrilies 
End, Frayley, in Suffolk. Down by the sea.” 

They burred into the dusk, their red lights flaring 
along the dim road. A year ago they had come in 
old clothes and broken shoes, in a pedlar’s cart, 
behind two little mokes, one of which was dropping 
a shoe. Then they had left behind them an old 
kettle with a hole in it, and some drawings, and the 
echo of laughter, and Benjamin had put them in 
Class III, those who didn’t work though they needed 
the money. A second time they had come, in a new 
motor and new clothes, shining with the pride of 


78 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


life, the lust of the eyes, the pomp of the world, 
wastrels and vagabonds still, and now in no class 
at all — those who didn’t work and didn’t need to. 
And this time they had left behind them an invita- 
tion, Umberto, and again the sound of laughter, the 
unquenchable implication of a limitless joke. 

Louie said that evening, breaking a long silence, 
“ Wouldn’t you like to ’ave gone to yonder place, 
Ben ? ” 

He looked at her. “ To stay with them ? ” for he, 
too, had them in his thoughts. “ No, I don’t want to 
stay with anybody. Do you ? ” 

He asked expecting one answer and got the other. 

“ Sometimes I feel that ’ud be nice, to get away 
a bit, Ben.” 

He understood then. It had been stupid of him 
not to realise it before, the emptiness of the cottage. 

“ I see. Of course. Well, I believe you’re right. 
It would be better to go away for a time. We will. 
We’ll go and stay in London, with my people, shall 
we ? My mother has often asked me to bring you ; 
but I wasn’t sure you’d care. It would please her, 
of course, tremendously. And I would like you to 
get to know each other a little. And directly we’re 
bored we can come away.” 

" I reckon,” said Louie, timidly, " as we ought 
to go there — not to yon place in Suffolk ? ” 

“ Why, yes. I think we perhaps ought, do you 
know. Besides ” 

Benjamin stopped. He didn’t think he wanted 
to go to Merrilies End. At least, he was sure he 


FORTUNE’S WHEEL 


79 


oughtn’t to want to. One may step with impunity 
into some atmospheres, however different from that 
which one approves oneself, but not into all. Some 
are disturbing. Benjamin thought that Merrilies 
End might be disturbing. Besides, he thought its 
owners wholly wrong in their principles of life ; and 
one doesn’t, if one is a person of honour, go and stay 
with those one thinks wholly wrong, unless they are 
near relatives. 

“ I will write to my mother to-night,” said Benjie. 

Mr. Robinson woke up in his chair and sighed, 
and said, “ I can never forgive myself, nor never shall. 
The poor little creater ! To think of ’im ! ” 

“ There, there, dad,” said Louie, mechanically. 

Benjamin began to write. 


CHAPTER V 

THE LARGE GRASP 

" Yes,” Lady Lettice Bunter told her friends, 
“ quite an experiment, you know. So interesting to 
see how it turns out. Oh, quite of the people, yes. 
Benjie is like that, dear boy ; the life of the poor, and 
all of us to marry the working classes. So he goes 
and finds a mill-hand, and does it. So like Benjie ; 
he always would go and do things, directly he thought 
of them. And this was quite a matter of principle ; 
there was no arguing with him ; no, it was the right 
thing to do, and must be done. So he did it. Quite 
a mercenary match, of course, as Hugh said ; he 
married her simply for her poverty. And the poor 
little baby died of beer and herring ; so terrible, 
wasn't it. A dreadful grief to poor dear Benjie, of 
course ; he felt it quite horribly, I know, though he 
never says anything ; and so, of course, did the poor 
girl. Well, no wonder ! I'm sure we all did. And 
now they're coming to stay. I am so pleased about 
that ; I thought Benjie never would ; he’s so silly 
about the homes of the rich. Hates carpets, you 
know, and everything comfortable, and the mere 
80 


THE LARGE GRASP 


81 


sight of a servant about the place is a red rag. I must 
warn the maids . . . Well, I am sure it will be most 
interesting to have them. I am looking forward 
immensely to making friends with dear Louie. Quite 
a representative type, you know — a real working 
woman. I saw her last just after the poor little 
baby's death, and then she was in the depths, of 
course ; one doesn't like to think of it. How the 
patient poor do suffer silently ! One felt powerless ; 
one could do nothing. . . . My niece, Cecil, knows 
her much better, and says she is a most interesting 
type. But then, of course, Cecil, like poor Benjie, 
is prejudiced in favour of the lower classes. They 
pick it up, you know, at Cambridge ; I can't think 
why. Cecil says, if she marries anyone, which she 
won’t, it will be an artisan, or a Labour member, or 
someone of that sort. But as a matter of fact it 
won't, because Cecil is rather particular about nice 
people ; and a man of that class, you know ! Oh, one 
shouldn't be narrow, of course, but so aggressive, 
aren’t they, and not to be moulded like a woman. 
Dear Louie ! That's what we’ve all got to do now — 
to mould her. Cecil says we mustn't destroy her 
type ; she must be a working woman always ; that’s 
her role. Well, of course we couldn’t destroy her 
type, if we wanted to ; so enduring, isn't it. It 
always has been and always will be, as Mervyn says. 
He believes in the good old stock of the soil, you 
know, tremendously — our labouring people . . . But 
by throwing her among nice people, something can 
be done; the more obvious . . . traits . . . softened, 

G 


82 VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


and the tone improved. Cecil says I shall ruin her ; 
but Cecil is such an extremist, dear child ! I admire 
the working classes as much as anyone does ; — 
where should we be without them ? — but there is a 
happy mean, and I have a weakness for h’s, I must 
say . . . Let me see, Anne, you haven't got these 
upsetting ideas about class, have you ? " 

“ Oh, I've no ideas of any sort about class," said 
Anne Vickery. “ I haven't room for them. My 
limited mind-space is too crowded with ideas about 
people. People are so thrilling in themselves, aren't 
they, that there simply isn’t time to think of them as 
anything else — as types, or representatives of a class, 
or the Poor, or the Rich. I admire the minds which 
can look at people like that ; they must have such a 
large grasp, to be able to take in all that behind the 
person himself. But I can’t do it. I see a person in 
a common and unscientific way as a person ; and he 
either amuses me or he doesn't, and that settles him. 
People are so frightfully alive, aren’t they ; and they 
count so much in themselves." 

“ Quite," said Lady Lettice, vaguely. “ You're 
always so interested in people, Anne, that I thought I 
might ask you to help me with Louie." 

Anne said, “ Oh, but I’m not. Not nearly always. 
I'm often quite horribly bored. And when I’m bored 
I’m horrid. Being interested in people sounds like 
liking dogs, or babies, or books or something — don’t 
you know the kind of person who asks you that ? 
Are you fond of babies? Do you like books? They might 
as well ask, do you admire hats ? So indiscriminate, 


THE LARGE GRASP 


83 


isn't it. I'm interested in interesting people (and 
hats and books) and not in uninteresting ones, of 
course." 

" That's so sensible," Lady Lettice said. "Just 
what I feel myself. I often think Benjie and Cecil 
don’t realise that enough — that you find kind hearts 
and great minds and souls to be saved in all classes, 
even the very rich. Yes, of course. And in the 
meantime, the niceties of life do count, don’t they ? 
And I should like Louie to pick up a little of your 
culture, Anne. You will come to my little parties, 
won’t you ? I want to get a few of you nice, bright, 
clever young people together, to make an atmos- 
phere. Cecil is coming soon, and she will be splendid 
at it. Of course you’re laughing, Anne ; you always 
do. But you will help me, won't you ? " 

Anne was, of course, laughing. She had a habit 
of it ; a sort of silent twinkling underlay even her 
more serious conversation. Anne was an amused 
person of about twenty-seven ; she had a pale, 
delicate, ironic face, that easily looked tired and very 
easily looked interested, and rather easily looked 
cynical' and wavy, light hair, and solemn blue eyes 
that observed and discerned and twinkled, and an 
attractive, satiric mouth. The impression she domi- 
nantly gave was that of a gay vividness laughter- 
touched, critical, and, even when most tired, intensely 
alive. She had, too, a certain detachment about her, 
as of one who looked on at the game even while she 
played it — played it cleverly and effectively, and 
enjoyed it extremely. Her touch on the world was 


8 4 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


light, and yet of an unafraid directness, a gay 
courageousness, as of one who will readily take a 
hand in all that offers, because it is more fun to be in 
the game. She wrote rather attractive articles and 
short stories, and was joint editor of a new monthly 
magazine, which was possibly why she often looked 
tired. Hugh Bunter wanted to marry her ; but the 
desire was not at present reciprocated, Anne being 
at present too busy to consider matrimony. 

“ I think I shall come,” said Anne, “ and protect 
the young woman. It seems to me she will need it. 
Between Cecil, wanting her to remain one of the noble 
poor, and you wanting her to learn the niceties and 
assimilate an atmosphere — and Benjie, of course in- 
structing her in the Minority Report — the poor dear. 
I expect she thinks she’d rather be just Louie Bunter. 
I would, if it was me. Think what a bore she’d be if 
ever she did pick any of it up ! I shall talk to Cecil for 
her good. She hasn’t half Jerry’s sense.” 

" Jerry isn’t interested in people, of course,” 
Lady Lettice said. ” He writes so much poetry.” 

“ I know. Such nice poetry, too. He’s a reason- 
able, sane young man with a truthful imagination, 
and sees straight. Poets and artists do. Now Cecil 
and Benjie aren’t poets and artists, but idealists, — 
theorists. So they can’t see the trees for the wood. 
That’s more deplorable — much more — than not 
seeing the wood for the trees. It’s like finding your 
way about by a map, instead of just following the 
roads and seeing what happens.” 

Lady Lettice said, " Quite. But of course it’s 


THE LARGE GRASP 


85 


best of all to be able to trust one’s chauffeur, isn’t it. 
Mackenzie is wonderful ; he never makes a mistake. 
So much more intelligent than Anderson was. I 
asked Benjie if he would like to motor up — but no, 
motors have no claim to exist. Though I’m sure ours 
works hard enough, and Benjie often says work is the 
claim ; but dear Benjie sometimes gets mixed. 
However, he and Louie are coming by the five-thirty 
to Liverpool Street. I don’t know whether street 
taxis have a claim to exist, or if not, how they’ll 
arrive.” 

“ However they arrive,” said Miss Vickery, “ they 
will be here so soon that I had better go at once.” 

“ Oh, my dear Anne, must you ? I don’t want you 
to, you know. I would love you to meet Louie as 
soon as possible. Well, you’ll look in soon, won't 
you ? I want to have a quiet little dinner or two for 
dear Louie ; no formality — just a few friends. I do 
want her to enjoy herself with us.” 

" Oh,” said Anne Vickery, dubiously. 

“ The fact is,” went on Lady Lettice, “ you mayn’t 
believe it, Anne, but I feel horribly shy. I always do 
when I think perhaps I’m not going to get on with 
people — when I don’t quite understand them, you 
know. The poor man at the gate, of course, one 
does understand ; one has always been used to them, 
in the country, and one’s servants, and so on, so it 
would be very stupid if one didn’t ; but that's 
different, isn’t it ? Really here I’m a little bit at a 
loss. How does one — how should one — treat a 
situation like this ? It makes me quite restless. I 


86 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


was speaking to the Bishop of Aldwych about it 
when he dined here on Thursday. ‘ Love and Tact/ 
he said. So true, of course. . . . But . . . Oh, Anne 
what do you think ? ” 

“ But/' said Anne, " how can I think anything ? 
I don’t know Louie.” 

So she left the situation on Lady Lettice’s hands, 
and departed hastily, lest she should be involved in 
it. As she crossed the street she saw a four-wheeled 
cab drive up, with luggage on the top. Four- 
wheeled cabs, then, had a claim to exist. 

Lady Lettice, exercising Love and Tact, said 
presently, " Tea is laid for you in the dining-room, 
dears, just this first day,” because the poor like it 
like that, and the niceties could wait awhile. So 
they went into the dining-room, and found it laid 
on a table, and there was a robin roll, and butter 
in a dish, and golden syrup, and hot scones, and 
a cake. 

“ Dinner at eight, you know,” Lady Lettice told 
them, because the poor, not being used to dinner, 
might, being unwarned, make too substantial a tea. 

But it seemed that the poor were not hungry. 
Louie was pale and tired, and only ate a scone. 
Benjie had a slice of bread and treacle. No, he 
never took butter, thanks. (“ Darling, no wonder 
you look so poorly,” said his mother. Benjie said 
he didn’t ; it was a time-honoured subject of dispute 
between them.) 

" Father’s still at the House,” said Lady Lettice. 
“ The House of Commons, you know,” she added, for 


THE LARGE GRASP 87 

Louie. “He’s a member. The Opposition side, of 
course. Benjie thinks that criminal, I know.” 

“Not a bit,” said Benjie. “One side is about as bad 
as another. Our whole Parliamentary system. ...” 

Lady Lettice said, “ Don’t be silly, darling. You’ll 
annoy father if you talk like that. He believes in it 
all so much. The Empire, you know,” she explained 
to Louie, “ and Church, and State, and the Land — so 
important, aren’t they. Father’s making a speech 
to-night about gas-lamps. He promised them at 
home that he would.” 

“ Well, that’s all right,” said Benjie. “ There’s 
some sense in that.” One’s father can’t go so hope- 
lessly astray about gas-lamps as about Church and 
State and the Land, which are so important, and 
should be left to the young, who know. 

“ You’ll like to go up to your room, dear Louie,” 
said Lady Lettice, with her funny, unusual timidity. 
Louie agreed, and was taken up. Then Lady Lettice 
put her arms about her son, and kissed him again. 

“ Benjie, darling; indeed I will try to make her 
happy, poor child. But you must help me to under- 
stand. Cecil will be here in a day or two, and she 
will help too.” 

Benjie frowned a little. “You won’t need help, 
mother. Louie is very ready to be made happy. 
It isn’t difficult.” 

“ Love and Tact,” said Lady Lettice, “ must be 
our bridge. That’s what the Bishop said the other 
day ; so fine, I thought.” 

“ But why a bridge ? ” said Benjie. 


88 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ Oh darling, for the gulf, of course ! Dear Louie 
is a working woman, and of course she can’t help 
looking down a tiny bit, quite nicely and uncon- 
sciously, on what she thinks the idle classes. They 
are so deluded, poor dears, about that. Not their 
fault, of course, because they so seldom get near 
enough to see how it really is ; and that’s what I 
want to show Louie. Father going off to the House 
every day, and working away in the library with young 
Banister at all hours — really he’s been looking quite 
poorly with it lately. He means to have some good 
chats with Louie — explain to her the working of it all, 
he says. Of course it’s all so interesting, and I so 
seldom get time to listen,” 

“ Poor mother ! You, too, being a member of the 
overworked class.” Benjie was fond of his mother. He 
also sympathised with her lack of opportunity of 
listening to his father’s discourses on the mechanism 
of state. He loved his father as a man, but found it 
hard to suffer him as a member. 

“ Louie, you know, is a Radical,” he added, with a 
touch of pride in her. To which his mother returned, 
“Oh, dear boy, what does it matter? Father’ll like 
it all the better ; he can convince her. We must 
turn dear Louie into a politician, Benjie . . . And 
what about clothes ? I thought of that at tea. I 
want to have a few people to meet her. But with it 
all she must remain a working woman, of course ; I 
know that’s what you want. We must take her as 
that — a girl of the people. That’s what I tell every- 
one, and they are so interested already.” 


THE LARGE GRASP 


89 

Benjie frowned again. " I don’t see that it’s their 
business to be interested in Louie. No one but 
ourselves need take her as anything. I won’t have 
Louie bothered by having to meet idiots, mother.” 

“ Not idiots, my precious. Anne Vickery, and 
Claude Banister, and nice young people like that. 
And they won’t bother her ; they’ll take her quite 
simply for what she is ; and at the same time make 
an atmosphere. Oh, I have immense hopes for Louie. 
It’s so much what we want , isn’t it ? — the introduction 
among us of the grit of the working-people. I’m 
sure I’ve often heard you say just that, and it is so 
true. I think it may have an effect on Hughie, do 
you know. I want him to get an attache-ship, and he 
only laughs. Perhaps Louie may make him feel how 
fine it is to work. Her hands, you know. I was 
thinking about them while she had tea. At first I 
was wondering what we could do about them — then 
I saw suddenly how much finer they are like that. 
They will make quite an impression, I’m sure.” 

Benjie spread out his own brown square fingers on 
his knee. “ I don’t see much difference between one 
hand and another. Oh yes, I see — yours are white, 
and narrow, and smooth. But I don’t think most 
people are interested in other people’s hands ; why 
should they be ? I can’t say I ever noticed Louie’s . . . 
Did you say you had asked Anne Vickery to come ? ” 

“ Yes. Dear Anne. So capable, isn’t she. I 
thought Louie would find her stimulating, and she 
is immensely interested in Louie.” 

“ Anne waits for that, as a rule,” said Benjie, “ till 


9 o 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


she’s met the person.” He knew Anne well, and 
thought her attractive but episodic. (The " but ” 
is Benjie’s.) Undoubtedly her interest in Louie 
would wait in abeyance till they had met ; then, if 
it came into being, Anne would be delightful ; and if 
it didn’t, she would be very detached indeed. Anne 
wouldn’t “ take ” Louie as a working woman, or as 
anything else but Louie Bunter. Her personal 
touch was as direct and unconfused as that of the 
Crevequers ; only it rejected much more. 

Then Hugh sauntered in, and said, “ Hullo, old 
man, I haven’t seen you for ages. Why didn’t you 
come up in the car, though ? ” Hugh was pleasant 
and kind, and would be nice to Louie : one could 
depend on him for that. 

Mr. Bunter didn’t make Louie’s acquaintance till 
dinner time. He had been working all the evening 
with his secretary in the library ; writing his speech, 
perhaps, about gas-lamps. “ Business of state,” as 
he put it. He took his responsibilities solemnly, and 
jested over them to show how solemn they were. 
Not for a moment did he forget that he was a pillar of 
the Empire. From him Benjie would seem to have 
inherited his ailment of incorrigible earnestness ; 
but his was a mild and sober earnestness, unlit, and 
rather solemn than ardent. He wasn’t clever ; 
young Banister had his hands full sometimes. For 
the rest, he was a well-bred, conscientious gentleman, 
and did his duty by his church, his state, and his 
constituents without flagging, as he did his duty in the 
country by his tenants and neighbours and pheasants. 


THE LARGE GRASP 


9i 


During the soup he talked to Louie very kindly 
and lucidly about the system which would demand 
his presence in the House after dinner. “ While you 
rest at home, we make the laws for you, you see. I 
expect it never occurred to you what a lot of work 
our governmental system involves to us unfortunate 
law-makers/’ (Louie had to be educated out of her 
probable ideas about the idle rich.) “ The mere 
setting ourselves,” said Mr. Bunter, “ against the 
tide that threatens to swamp the — the landmarks . . . 
But here you and Benjie will be quarrelling with my 
politics.” 

Louie shook her head, deprecating any such inten- 
tion. Benjie said, from the other end of the table, 
“ No, why ? If you mean that you're there to oppose 
the Liberal government, I'm with you. I always 
oppose it myself.” 

“You are so right, darling,” said Lady Lettice, 
with fervour. “ I knew you would, when you grew 
a little older and thought things out, though you 
used to call yourself a Radical when you were at 
Eton. But after this Budget, who could be a Liberal 
any more ? ” 

“ It’s very bad, the Budget,” Benjie admitted. 
“ I’ve nothing to say for it. Very bad, and typically 
Liberal. Vague, chaotic, ridiculous, and doesn't 
know what it means.” 

“ Robbery,” said Mr. Bunter. “ Sheer robbery. 
That's what it means. We know, if it doesn't. And 
our clever demagogue knows : not a doubt of that.” 

Bob Traherne, Lady Lettice’s nephew, a curate in 


92 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


a Borough slum, said to Benjie, “ You’re on the path 
of danger, Benjie. You’re degenerating into a mere 
Red Flagger. I suppose you’ve chucked the Minority 
Report already, as not good enough. That way lies 
paralysis ; I know. I’ve seen so many of ’em start 
that way and end flag-flappers. You take my 
advice and record your vote like a Christian, and 
make the best of a poor job till you can get anything 
better. Piecemeal reform — that’s my motto. Tinker- 
ing ; anything you like. Only start in and do 
something.” 

“ Thank you,” said Benjie. “ I will join the 
Tinkers’ Union on the spot.” 

“ If you do,” said his cousin, “ you may save your 
soul alive yet.” 

“ Dear boys,” said Lady Lettice, “ I don’t know 
what you are talking about.” 

“ I was merely telling Benjie that it was a pity to 
be so high-principled as to repudiate practical 
reform altogether. It’s a little hard on the people 
who would benefit by the reforms. But Benjie 
always sacrifices people to principles. I suppose it’s 
because he won’t come to church ; he’d learn better 
there. I wish you’d come and hear me preach, 
Benjie. I may not be polished or profound, but I 
tell the truth, and it would be good for you. As you 
won’t, I have to deliver myself at the dinner table 
instead. I beg your pardon, Aunt Lettice.” 

Mr. Bunter was looking disapproving. He wished 
Bob wouldn’t talk so much ; that wasn’t the tem- 
perate, cultured, judicious, lucid expounding of 


THE LARGE GRASP 


93 


affairs that he held to be good for Louie. Besides, 
Bob was a Radical, and, whether tinkerers or flag- 
flappers, Radicals are a baleful influence on the minds 
of the ignorant poor. And as for Benjie going to 
hear Bob preach — well, that perhaps was hardly the 
way to effect his much-to-be-wished-for conversion 
from secularism. For Bob was a curious mixture of 
modernism and high ritualism ; and Mr. Bunter was 
a very orthodox and moderate Anglican, and liked 
his religion temperate and correct, of the best 
cathedral type. Benjie and Louie had better go and 
hear the Bishop of Aldwych, who was preaching a 
course on the Athanasian Creed. Bob was in favour 
of democratic parsons, and that, of course, wouldn't do. 

“ Our friend Bob gets carried away by his enthu- 
siasm," said Mr. Bunter to Louie. “ He is what one 
may call a crank, if he will forgive me the phrase. 
We're all young once, aren’t we. But that was a 
good phrase of yours, Bob, about being so high- 
principled as to repudiate all practical reform. I 
must put it in my store-house, eh, Banister ? " 

“ Benjie looks as if he was wanting to say that even 
high principles are better than none," said Hugh. 
“ You’re hopelessly wrong, old man, as usual. I go 
none. You travel lighter and don’t need to arrive. 
What do you think, Louie ? . . . No, I don’t mean 
that ; I mean, what do you think of London ? ’’ 

That was like Hugh ; he always exercised tact, if 
not love, and it was a shame to puzzle Louie. 

Louie said that was a great place ; and there 
seemed to be a rare lot of people in the streets. 


94 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


" Awful, isn’t it. But let’s get on quick, or some- 
one will begin about the Unemployed. Not that 
they are unemployed, you know, the people in the 
streets, but ... I say, will you come to the Zoo 
to-morrow ? ” 

Louie looked to see if Benjie would like her to. She 
gathered that he would. 

“ Or the White City ? ” Hugh offered her an 
alternative, in his kind, casual way, and she smiled 
at him. 

* ‘ My brother say that ’s something wonderful to see. ” 

“ It is. Good, then ; the White City. You’ll 
come, Benjie ? Let’s all come. You too, mother.” 

“ No, darling. I felt so ill last time I went to that 
dreadful place — with Mollie and Joey last week — 
that I resolved never to set foot in it again. Hugh 
dear, what a place to take Louie to on her first day in 
London ! She hasn’t seen anything yet — St. Paul’s, 
or the Abbey, or the National Gallery, or — or the 
Academy.” Lady Lettice was looking a little per- 
turbed. What about Louie’s education ? 

“ The White City’s the best of the lot,” said Hugh, 
tranquilly. 

His father waved him aside as frivolous. “ Non- 
sense, my boy. Louie shall see our Metropolis on 
her finest side to start with. I will take her myself 
over the Abbey, and to look at the Houses of Parlia- 
ment. Not inside them , you understand, Louie ; no, 
no, that mayn’t be ! Mysteries of state, you know ! 
Shall I tell you what would happen to you if you were 
found inside the House during a debate ? You’d be 


THE LARGE GRASP 


95 


taken up as a Suffragette ! What would you think of 
that ? They’d think you were one of those kicking 
ladies who chain themselves to railings and scratch 
Robert’s face. Now, you don’t want to have any- 
thing to do with them, I’ll be bound ? ” 

Louie’s silence was sometimes effective. It gently 
put irrelevancies aside, not as vulgar or silly, but as 
something with which she had no concern. 

“You must let Mr. Bunter explain to you all about 
that sort of thing to-morrow afternoon,” said Lady 
Lettice. “ Why women shouldn’t vote, you know, 
and why the Conservatives are right, and how im- 
portant it all is. And all about party government, 
that Benjie doesn’t like, though I can’t imagine what 
you want instead, dear boy. But you can talk it all 
out with father to-morrow. And afterwards I 
should like to take you to the Academy, Louie dear. 
You’re fond of pictures, I’m sure.” 

“ I like some pictures,” Louie admitted, wistfully. 
She hankered after the White City, that wonderful 
place to see. 

Benjie remonstrated here. “ Not the Academy, 
mother. Why the Academy ? For the pictures, or 
for what ? Really, you know ” 

No, for the atmosphere, Anne Vickery could have 
told him. At the Academy one may not have much 
to look at, but one learns the polite way of looking. 
Also, it is interesting to see the taste of our working- 
people in art. 

“ Louie,” said Hugh, “ you’d rather come to the 
White City, wouldn't you ? ” 


9 6 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


" That would be nice,” said Louie, timid and half 
ashamed, but decisive. 

That settled it. Louie had common tastes ; her 
education must proceed with hot-house expedition. 
To-morrow for the inside of the Abbey and the out- 
side of the Houses of Parliament, with Mr. Bunter for 
guide, and then for the Academy and its polite 
atmosphere, where one may, while retaining all the 
individuality of the unspoilt poor, begin the acqui- 
sition of the niceties. And where one may also meet 
friends, who will be interested in one. 

Hugh gave it up, resigned. He had done his best 
for his sister-in-law, and he was genuinely sorry to 
have failed. To him it was simple. Louie would 
enjoy the White City, and wouldn’t enjoy the Houses 
of Parliament ; what then remained to argue about ? 

Hugh wondered what Benjie thought about it. 
What Benjie probably mainly thought was that he 
wanted Louie to get on with his parents. For his 
part, he was going to spend to-morrow afternoon lec- 
turing for his cousin Bob in the Borough about the 
Minimum Wage. Benjie did a good deal of lecturing; 
he was a popular man on socialist platforms, the 
blacksmith of Wattles. He would have rather liked 
Louie to come with him ; he was glad of his mill-hand 
wife on these occasions ; her presence seemed to link 
him closer to his audience, to give him a more intimate 
sense of their needs and views. It wasn’t that she 
agreed with him particularly, or didn’t agree with 
him ; but there she was, a visible symbol of his unity 
with the wage-earners who trod the verge, and a stay 


THE LARGE GRASP 


97 


and consolation to him accordingly. However, 
to-morrow Louie was to learn instead the ways of 
governments when they try to govern, and of polite 
society when it looks at polite pictures. 

Bob Traherne, who had been glancing rather often 
and attentively at Louie, said to himself, “ She wants 
something awfully badly. Her child — Benjie — the 
White City — perhaps all three. She’ll have to have 
something pretty soon, or she’ll die of hunger. And 
meanwhile they’re going to give her husks to go on 
with, and she’ll choke. And Benjie can’t save her 
from them, because he’s set the tune himself. He 
married her as a working-class woman ; and so he 
can’t resent it if they all take her as that. Why, he 
took her as that himself — for better, for worse . . . 
From all clever fools, good Lord deliver us ! ” 

Bob Traherne, being a religious young man, was 
clear-eyed and saw straight, as Anne Vickery said 
poets and artists did. 

Louie met Anne Vickery the next day, at the 
Academy. Lady Lettice had prevailed on her to 
“ come and help with dear Louie.” Dear Louie’s 
head was aching a little, after a political afternoon. 
“Yes, that was wonderful interesting,” she told 
Lady Lettice, courteously, of the Houses of Parlia- 
ment and of the Abbey that makes us We. (“ So,” 
Mr. Bunter had told her,, “ our great imperialist poet 
has it ; sometimes a jingler, and not always a true 
poet, nor always in the finest taste, but there you 
have him at his best. As in the Recessional — lest 
we forget” . . . “Yes,” said Louie, “that do sound 

H 


9 8 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


nice. I’ve heard it at concerts ; they recite it.”) And 
now here was the Royal Academy, and Louie again 
prepared to be interested. She looked round at the 
pictures, and some of them were rather nice. Quite 
a lot of pretty child portraits there were. 

“ Now I wonder what you will like,” Lady Lettice 
said. “You must follow your own taste, Louie ; 
that’s so important, isn’t it.” 

Louie supposed it was. What she liked was 
pictures of children, apparently. And game and fruit 
on tables ; because “ that do seem real, as if you 
could touch it ; ” and anything with a story in it that 
one could understand. A good many of the stories, 
of course, one couldn’t understand, and Lady Lettice’s 
attempts at explanation were not always enlighten- 
ing. She frequently fell back on, “ Oh, they’re just 
old Greeks, my dear,” — and of course old Greeks 
might be doing anything or nothing. Inadequate 
garments were the distinctive mark of old Greeks ; 
there seemed to be a great many of them in the 
Academy. (“ That was a queer country,” was 
Louie’s deduction.) Louie was of course the mouth- 
piece of the uncultivated masses, so her comments 
were worth observation. Lady Lettice took note of 
them, but, having a disconnected mind, she was not 
good at taking note. She wished that her intelligent 
and cultured friend, Mrs. Venables, the novelist, 
had been there. Mrs. Venables was by way of being 
much interested in Louie, and was shortly going to 
make her acquaintance. She had said it would be 
" indeed a treat to come into contact with such a 


THE LARGE GRASP 


99 


specimen of uncultured humanity. We must all 
feel that our intellectual horizons want widening by 
just such a rough jostling against raw realities. ” But 
she had drawn the line at the Academy ; that orgie of 
the uninspired commonplace was too rough a jostling 
for sensitive perceptions. She had even begged Lady 
Lettice to take Louie to the Post-Impressionists 
instead. “ Louie wouldn’t like the Post-Impres- 
sionists a bit,” Lady Lettice had pleaded. But 
Mrs. Venables had thought that she might ; there 
was in both (the masses and the Post-Impressionists) 
the same sort of naive, unpretentious candour. Like 
would probably call to like . . . Lady Lettice had 
looked at her friend rather oddly ; she never argued, 
and she had a profound respect for Mrs. Venable’s 
greater abilities, but it came into her mind that it was 
rather curious to remember that Ida Venables had 
been helping to manage girls’ clubs in the East End 
for some years. 

Lady Lettice herself was not artistic. She rather 
enjoyed the orgie of the uninspired commonplace, 
though of course the people one met there were really 
the point. She met a good many to-day, and intro- 
duced Louie to all of them. “ My blacksmith son’s 
wife,” she would say, demanding interested attention 
for her ; and would add, if she thought Louie was out 
of hearing, “ She was just a mill-hand, you know, — 
so original.” Mill-hands are, of course, highly 
original and deeply interesting, so Louie was regarded 
with an attention that puzzled her. She had never 
had such weight given to her words before ; but of 


100 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


course when surrounded by other mill-hands, all 
presumably of equal originality, the wisdom of each 
had been lost in the general feast of reason and flow 
of soul. Such unwonted notice made Louie a little 
uncomfortable ; she devoted herself with attention 
to the pictures in order to be forgotten. 

There were some magnetic pictures, that had little 
crowds before them. One such was of two gentlemen 
in evening dress playing chess, and you could see 
their white ties and all as plain . . . and one of them 
with a rare scowl. . . . “ Wilfred Arbuthnot,” said 
Lady Lettice, and Louie wondered which of the 
gentlemen that was. “ Playing chess, aren’t they, 
and one of them cheating — or is it both ? Yes. 
Both, I expect. His people always cheat. Most 
striking and bold, isn’t it. You like that, Louie ? ” 

Yes, that did seem nice. There was some interest 
in that ; it was so real ; the light on the gentlemen’s 
shoes and all. 

“ His are always problem pictures, you know,” 
Lady Lettice explained. “You have to guess some- 
thing, or answer something, or find something — I’m 
sure I don’t know what, and I never guess right. 
I shouldn’t wonder if he’s got a pawn up his sleeve, 
perhaps.” 

That was really a fascinating picture. The 
spectators obviously knew what was what. Louie 
made straight tracks for the next crowd-surrounded 
spot. That was a picture of another type. 

“ Quite the picture,” Lady Lettice said of it. “ It 
does give one to think, doesn’t it. Yes, indeed. 


THE LARGE GRASP 


IOI 


It makes one too dreadfully ashamed of the way one 
lives. So good for us to be stirred up sometimes, 
and reminded that there are such things beneath 
our feet. The submerged tenth, you know, and all 
that, and I'm sure all of us who are Christians. . . 
She was addressing a Bishop at the moment. The 
Bishop, who disliked the picture, said, “ Quite so. 
A little crude, that sort of religious appeal. Merely 

as a question of taste and reverence ” 

“ So important, aren’t they. Yes. But I want to 
see its effect on my daughter-in-law. She, you know, 
belongs there ; she is of them all, the poor struggling 
creatures — under our feet ; how can we bear it ? as 
Ida Venables says, and I’m sure she’s right ; she 
never blinks things, though I sometimes think she 
exaggerates a wee bit, dear thing ; and after all, are 
they our fault, these horrors ? Louie dear, look at 
this. Do you see what it all means ? The submerged 
poor, you know, reaching up out of — out of a sort 
of pit, isn’t it ? — and the people who don’t care, going 
to the opera, I suppose, aren’t they? — and religion, 
you see, judging them all — but never mind that 
bit, it isn’t very nice, as the Bishop was saying. 
Now doesn’t it strike you as wonderfully real, dear ? ’ 
Louie looked, and presently said she supposed 
“ that was an accident, and the street had give way 
and let them through. That did seem dreadful ! ” 
She added that her mother would like it. “ Mother’s 
always one for accidents. There was a pore man 
only yesterday in Wattles lost both his arms tumb- 
ling from a telegraph post ; mother, she write straight 


102 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


off to me. . . . Yes, that do seem a wonderful 
horrid picture, when you look close.” 

Lady Lettice said, indeed it did. “ But not an 
accident, Louie ; life, you know. It’s the dreadful, 
sad way in which the painter sees life itself. The 
poor and the rich, and all that. But, of course, he 
does exaggerate ; you must, in a picture.” 

“ Oh,” said Louie, “ the pore and the rich.” She 
a little lost interest. One heard so much of the pore 
and the rich ; of course they must be important 
and interesting — did not Benjie think so ? — but 
accidents are more fun. 

It was then that Anne Vickery joined them. 
Lady Lettice hailed her with some relief. She 
introduced Louie and Anne. “ Louie Bunter, one 
of the poor. Anne Vickery, a cultured friend who is 
going to take you up.” So Anne understood the 
introduction, and the irony of her mouth became a 
shade more pronounced. What Louie understood 
it was always difficult to say. She looked at Anne 
with her patient brown eyes, taking in her neat, 
pale fairness, and something there was about her of 
keen-edged incisiveness, to which Lady Lettice 
Bunter’s vagueness made a queer foil. There was 
nothing vague about Anne. Her blue amused look 
rested for a moment on Louie — on Louie herself, 
not on the ex-mill-hand — and then left her for the 
picture. 

Anne said, “ I do like the Academy, and that’s the 
nicest of the lot. I hoped I should find you enjoying 
it. Don’t you love it, Mrs. Bunter ? I can’t think 


THE LARGE GRASP 


103 


how anyone can say they are bored by the Academy. 
Look at it ! ” 

“ That do seem nice/’ said Louie, since Miss 
Vickery obviously thought so. 

“ Of course,” said Lady Lettice, “ you can make 
anything seem ridiculous, Anne, by laughing. But 
Louie and I are enjoying it all immensely. And for 
anyone who values reality, you know, that picture. 
. . . Louie, you see, knows . Louie has been there. 
Yes. Benjie is talking about it all now, to Bob’s 
people. I hope he is cheering the poor things up ; 
not telling them how sad it all is. But Benjie isn’t 
always very wise. Now, I always encourage people 
to think they are comfortable, if they can manage 
to ; what is the good of looking on the dark side ? 
And it’s so much a question of what one is born to. 
Don’t you agree with me, Louie ? That the poor 
do get along fairly well after all, I mean, and don’t 
feel things quite like — well, like that, you know ? ” 

The poor again. Louie couldn’t tackle them — 
they seemed too many ; the heterogeneous crowd 
of her acquaintances swayed into her vision, un- 
steadily. Do the poor feel things ? Do the rich ? 
Do fair men like smoking ? A column of Tit-Bits 
enquiries rose before her eyes. She gave it up. 
Napoleon Bonaparte and Lady Lettice could think 
in continents and classes ; Louie hadn’t a large 
enough mental grasp for that. She shook her head. 

“ I expect there’ll be some as do and some as 
don’t,” she ventures. 

“ How true,” said Lady Lettice, “ and what I 


104 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


always say. You find people of all sorts in all 
classes. Dear Louie, it is so interesting to have 
you to make things clearer. You must belong before 
you can speak with authority, isn’t that so?” 

“No,” said Anne. “You must speak with 
authority before you belong, because you never will 
after.” 

Then they went to the tea room. Louie looked a 
good deal at Anne, who was attractive. She would 
have liked Anne to like her. But Anne didn’t so 
far seem much interested ; she was cool, friendly, 
and detached ; she perhaps didn’t think mill-hands 
so original as most people seemed to. Louie felt 
before that blue glance a queer new feeling of being 
unclothed ; the garments of the interesting poor 
that had been swathed luxuriantly about her of late 
by these odd, interested rich people, seemed to 
fall away. Stripped of her class prerogatives she 
stood, plain Louie Bunter, to be judged in some 
direct, personal way. One forfeited a handicap so ; 
but it was easier to breathe. 

The question became suddenly of disproportionate, 
unaccountable importance — was Miss Vickery going 
to like her or not ? 


CHAPTER VI 

THE CULT 

The cult of the poor, generally and individually, 
happened to be a fashionable cult in London just 
at this time. One asked Labour members to dinner ; 
one found starving geniuses in garrets ; one worked 
in slums. Rough diamonds had a high market value; 
one discovered them and displayed them eagerly to 
appreciative audiences. To have secured one actually 
in one’s family circle was to have done an enviable 
and admirable thing. Lady Lettice, now that the 
first shock was over, was not displeased with her 
democratic son, who, after all, was not the eldest 
(that, of course, could not have been tolerated with 
any equanimity). The presence of Louie, the rough- 
handed worker, at her dinner-parties, gave them a 
flavour. One must have lions or lionesses. Literary 
lions are a drug in the market, and so often also 
that sort of half and half creature, not refined enough 
to be agreeable company, not vulgar enough to be an 
interesting study ; and, anyhow, of making many 
books there is no end, and we nearly all have a hand 
in that trade in these days. The same with painters and 

105 


io6 VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 

musicians, only they are often not even half and half, 
and that is a bore. If you must be low on the social 
stairway, you had better be at the very bottom- 
submerged, as they say. Louie was very beautifully 
submerged ; she dressed and ate and drank in 
character, and put cheese into her mouth with her 
knife. Mrs. Venables, Lady Lettice’s novelist 
friend, looked at her with immense interest. Mrs. 
Venables was connected with East End clubs ; 
the submerged made a strong appeal to her. She 
was not a democrat — far from it, because of course 
one can help so much more effectively from above ; 
but to help effectively one must enter into the very 
heart of the people, study and wholly apprehend their 
mental outlook. And here was one of them sitting 
opposite to her at dinner, mopping up the sauce from 
her plate with a bit of bread, because you can’t get it 
all up with your fish-knife. A magnificently uncouth 
creature. 

Under the interested regard of the grave lady 
opposite, Louie blushed a little at first, then settled 
down to it, supposing that it was only because she 
was “ pore.” The rich take an interest in the poor; 
you can’t get round that. Louie dubiously supposed 
it was a nice thing to have an interest taken in you 
even if it was only because you were poor. The 
table was surrounded by people, all presumably 
taking an interest in the poor. No, not all; for 
Mr. Jerry was there, just down from Cambridge, and 
he wasn’t much interested in people, rich or poor ; 
and Mr. Hugh, the kind, beautiful young gentleman, 


THE CULT 


107 


who wasn’t interested in anything, but either bored 
or amused ; and Miss Vickery, who gave so much 
interest to what she found interesting that she had 
none left for what she didn’t, and it was all a ques- 
tion which side of the line you individually were. 
There was also the Reverend Traherne, who was 
immensely interested in all the persons he saw, 
because they were persons, and nothing else counts ; 
and Miss Cecil, who was interested in democracy, and 
in Benjie’s efforts for it, and in making Louie do her 
part in the plan and claim her place in the social 
sphere ; and Benjie himself, who was interested in 
putting the world to rights ; and young Mr. Banister, 
who thought Louie a queer fish and Benjie another ; 
and Lady Lettice, amiably anxious that everyone 
should enjoy themselves, interested and interester 
together ; and Mr. Bunter, who was pained by Louie’s 
exercise with the bread. Mr. Bunter didn’t like 
uncouthness ; he was an anti-democrat. Mrs. 
Venables, on his left, looked at him compassionately ; 
the excellent Mervyn was such a thorough-going, 
slow-moving Tory; his unreceptive mind was im- 
penetrably closed to all the rough young movements 
of the day ; he was an example worth study of the 
uninspired commonplace, rooted with solemn dignity 
into established systems. 

“ I think,” Mrs. Venables was wont to say of him, 
“ there will always be place in this rough, jostling 
hierarchy for a gentleman. The Mervyn Bunters of 
the world fill their niche ; long may we keep them.” 

“ Gentlemen, yes,” Bob Traherne would have 


108 VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 

replied to her ; “ but pompous gentlemen, solemn 
gentlemen, explanatory gentlemen — must one keep 
them ? I see no niche that requires such filling as 
that.” Bob Traherne, however, was a representative 
of the ardent, rough young movements, and an im- 
patient young man at that, and not interested in 
hierarchies. Solemnity — dignity — pomposity — they 
lie like feather-beds in the way of advance ; and 
advance is, after all, the object. 

This was Louie’s dinner-party ; the guests had 
been asked that they might “ discover ” her. And 
Lady Lettice did not think that Louie was giving 
them a fair chance. She was remaining hid, listening 
silently while Mr. Bunter told her about a dreadful 
thing called Reciprocity, and how Canada was going 
to be annexed by the United States. 

“ That is the way we have with our Empire, you 
see,” he was saying, not without bitterness. “ Too 
much trouble ; can’t afford to keep the links in 
repair ; break them ; let them go. That’s the Little 
Englander’s cry. We want to keep up family con- 
nections. Emigration ; that’s the solution. Keep 
the children in close touch with the old Mother ; 
send the best and sturdiest of our working people 
to the Colonies, to bind them closer to us. That’s 
the only cure for this wretched anti-imperialism 
that’s sapping our sinews. The fate of the Empire 
lies in the hands of our working men and women ; 
they can save it or lose it,” and so on ; very nice for 
Louie to hear about, of course, but it wasn’t Mr. 
Bunter that was to be discovered, and so long as he was 


THE CULT 


109 


so fluent, Mrs. Venables couldn’t “get at ’’ Louie. “ I 
must get at her, Lettice,’’ Mrs. Venables had said 
beforehand ; “I must get right into her. I am used 
to digging deep ; and one does have to dig deep to find 
those who have never found themselves. What a 
world of patient, untaught, unreasoning pondering 
one sees behing the pathetic, hungry eyes of the 
poor ! One almost fears to probe — it is too profound, 
too sacred ; and besides, if one wakes the soul of a 
people, one is responsible for much. It may be less 
easy to quiet than to rouse. 'The slumbering forces 
of democracy — sometimes one must shudder at the 
contemplation. It is a wonderful, appalling, but 
inspiring thought — they on one side and we on the 
other, and ‘ echoing straits between us thrown.’ 
One can but try to bridge the gulf by patient insight 
and love.’’ 

“So difficult, so important, isn’t it,’’ Lady Lettice 
had absently replied. 

So Mrs. Venables asked Louie across the table 
whether she did not feel the country calling to her 
this lovely June weather ? “I always think, for 
those who are earth-rooted, cities in June must be a 
prison. I am sorry to say I am not earth-rooted ; 
I am a city-hardened deserter. But even I feel the 
summons on days like this. ... Is this the first time 
you have left Cambridgeshire ? ’’ 

What was the lady thinking of ? Louie felt a little 
hurt. She wasn’t sure she liked the word “ earth- 
rooted,’’ either ; she vaguely suspected it of oppro- 
brious meanings. 


no 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ Why I’ve bin away plenty,” she returned. " I’ve 
bin to Yarmouth — and Hunstanton — and Eve 
stayed a deal at Clacton-on-sea, where my aunt 
lives.” 

“ But you love the country best, I am sure,” the 
lady insisted. 

Louie was less sure. " That’s a bit quiet,” she 
opined. “ But Ben likes it.” 

Mrs. Venables grew more alarming every moment. 
What she said next was, “ And what has most im- 
pressed you in London, so far ? I should like to hear 
your impressions of place and people. Do you feel 
the spirit of it all has entered very deeply into 
you ? Now I wonder if you were arrested by 
St. Paul’s ? ” 

“ No, I never,” said Louie, indignantly defensive. 
“ I didn’t do nothing there, nor touch nothing I 
oughtn’t.” 

There was a ripple of laughter among Louie’s 
neighbours. Mrs. Venables, after a moment of 
blankness, brightened into comprehension. Of course 
one must use the simplest of language to the poor ; 
she had been stupidly forgetful. She smiled at 
Louie reassuringly. 

“You misunderstand me ! You must forgive an 
over-sophisticated manner of speech. What I meant 
was, did St. Paul’s interest you ? ” 

Louie didn’t see how she could have meant that, 
and was annoyed at having been laughed at, but 
answered a little nervously that “ That did seem a 
fine building.” 


THE CULT 


hi 


“ That, of course/’ assented the persistent lady. 
“ But did it appeal to you ? Did it stir you ? ” 

Mr. Bunter intervened. 

“ There I can speak for Louie. I assure you that she 
felt the deepest admiration and interest. She and I 
spent a most profitable hour there ; didn’t we, 
Louie ? ” 

“ Wrong answer,” Hugh murmured to Anne 
Vickery. “ Mrs. Ven looks awfully disappointed ; 
she had hoped better things of Louie, though not 
of father, of course. Poor old Benjie ! ” 

For Benjie, abstractedly listening to Cecil, and 
hearing Mrs. Venables’ deep, questioning tones from 
the other end of the table, was frowning a little and 
gnawing his lower lip, with his look of a sulky child. 

“ But why does he allow it ? ” whispered Anne, 
impatient and amused. “ Why does he stand by 
and let it go on ? It’s so helpless of him, if he sees 
and minds.” 

Hugh gave a quick shrug. “He can’t logically 
protest ; it’s all a carrying out of his own plans, after 
all. There doesn’t come any point at which he can 
decently turn round and say ‘ This is absurd, and 
insulting to a human being ’ — because that’s just 
what his own conduct has been, all along. And 
Benjie, though an ass, is unfortunately a logical ass.” 

“ It’s all extremely interesting,” said Anne, “ but 
I have known more appropriate moments. . . . Shall 
we talk about Simon Bussy a little now, if we’ve 
got to go and see him to-morrow ? ” 

“ Mrs. Ven” Cecil said to Louie as they went to 


112 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


bed, “ is the limit. Never mind her. She’s a rotter, 
you know; can’t write in the least; her books are 
like semolina pudding. She thinks they’re Ibsen- 
esque, but really they’re like Miss Yonge in a fit of 
religious doubt. She’s got religious doubts on the 
brain ; religious doubts and moral certainties and 
social problems. She told me once that life contains 
three categories — the things one knows, the things 
one can’t know, and the things one’s got to try and 
do — make our lives sublime, you know, and all that. 
And about every two years she brings out a novel 
about some awful ass who finds the three categories 
help him, and develops his soul and tries to develop 
the woman’s soul ; and once she wrote a Book of 
Thoughts, in beautiful, artistic binding, and it ought 
to have come out in red plush and been used for a 
stand for wax flowers. I won’t have her bully- 
ragging you.” 

Miss Cecil did run on so ; one couldn’t understand, 
as a rule, what she was talking about, and certainly 
not at the end of an evening like this, when it seemed 
that everyone had done nothing but talk and talk 
and talk. Louie felt and looked tired and blank. 
Cecil had to suppress a twinge of impatience ; she 
talked for her own edification, but she rather 
preferred to be followed. However, she said 
generously, " Come and see the Post-Impressionists 
with me to-morrow, and we’ll have tea at Selfridge’s, 
on the roof. Then we’ll go down to Chelsea, if 
there’s a grey mist, and get an Arthur Rackham 
view ; it’s ripping sometimes. We’ll travel about on 


THE CULT 


ii3 

’buses ; that’s the only way of seeing London ; you 
get impressionist views of the tops of everybody. 
You shan’t see any more silly old Academies now 
I’ve come. And we’ll go to ‘Major Barbara’ on 
Wednesday afternoon ; it’s so awfully jolly. And 
one day you must come to the ‘ Blue Bird ’ ; I love it. 
So does Jerry ; we keep going. I think you get a 
little more out of it each time. I like it better than 
anything else of Maeterlinck’s now — except a very 
few things out of ‘Serres Chaudes.’ You ought to 
know French, Louie ; I think I’ll teach you, shall 
I ? There are such heaps of ripping things you could 
read if you knew it. Though of course you ought 
really to begin with Latin.” 

“ Ben tried to learn me a bit o’ that. But I 
didn’t seem to get on with it nohow, so he leave off.” 

“ Well, perhaps it’s waste of time, with so much 
in English that you’ve not read yet. Life’s so 
awfully short for all the books one wants to read; 
it’s dreadful.” 

Louie said she expected one just had to make shift 
wi’out. 

Cecil said, “ Then there’s the Tate. Mrs. Ven 
would love to take you there, because of the Wattses. 
But she shan’t ; I shall. You know, I’m not 
awfully fond of Watts ; he’s a bit like what Mrs. Ven 
would like to be if she painted, only she couldn’t 
be, because she couldn’t have any genius, not a spark, 
however hard she painted ; but it’s what she might 
aspire to, d’you see ? ” 

No, of course Louie didn’t see ; well, how should 


1 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


114 

she, when she hadn’t even seen Watts, Cecil thought 
quickly. When she had seen Watts, and the Post- 
Impressionists, and an Arthur Rackham view of 
Chelsea, and a little Bernard Shaw, and the Blue 
Bird, and a few more things, she would also see, no 
doubt, what Cecil meant by her comments on these 
things and others. Till then comments fell a little flat. 

“ We’ll have a really thrilling time,” said Cecil, and 
left Louie to go to bed, less because she looked tired 
than because one can’t talk for ever without being 
appreciated. 

“ I’m sure,” Louie said, as Cecil left her, “ you’re 
all much too kind to me.” 

Was that better, or less good, than not being kind 
enough ? 

The next few days were chaotic ; Louie, ciceroned 
by everyone in turn, was introduced to what Mrs. 
Venables called the soul of the city. “ Never you 
mind her, Louie,” said Cecil, encouragingly, “ and 
don’t you believe a word she says ; she’s a duffer, and 
Aunt Lettice, who never pretends to be clever, 
knows more about things. It’s not a soul, all this ; 
it’s colour, and shape, and sound, and that’s much more 
important. Mrs. Ven has souls on the brain; she’s 
as keen as mustard on digging up yours, to see what 
it’s like. That’s why she keeps asking you questions. 
Benjie, why don’t you shut her up sometimes, when 
she gets on Louie ? ” 

“ D’you mind much, Louie ? ” asked Benjie. 
The three of them were waiting for “Lohengrin” to 
begin. Cecil had said, “ Louie must hear some 


THE CULT 


ii5 

Wagner.” Louie shook her patient head. “ I don’t 
know as how I mind that lady, not more’n others.” 

Then Cecil and Benjie began to talk across her 
about Wagner. They both had plenty to say. These 
two had always plenty to say to each other about 
everything ; Louie was used to that. They were 
interested in each other’s ideas, though they often 
didn’t agree. Only yesterday Louie had overheard 
Cecil say to Miss Vickery, “ Benjie’s ideas are always 
rather thrilling, whether they’re about village com- 
munities or marriage. And they always come to 
something — that’s what I like. I’m awfully inter- 
ested in them.” 

“ That’s so nice for the ideas,” Miss Vickery had 
returned, in her cool, light tones. “ It must be so 
thoroughly jolly to have interest taken in you 
because you’re an idea of someone else’s that has 
come to something. Such a gratifying position. Is 
that why you’re interested in me, Hugh, because I’m 
an idea of someone’s ? I wonder if I am. I've heard 
that in sermons — that we ought to love other people 
because they are the embodiments (inadequate, of 
course) of the intention with which they were made. 
So interesting, as Lady Lettice says when she is bored. 
But I’d rather be liked for me-myself, I think.” 

Louie hadn’t quite known what they were talking 
about. But when she had come among them a 
moment later, they had looked momentarily a little 
embarrassed, and talked about something else. 

Anyhow, that was plain and clear, that Miss Cecil 
was awfully interested in Ben’s ideas, and Ben, in his 


n6 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


soberer way, in Miss Cecil’s. And they talked across 
Louie for ten minutes, and sometimes appealed to her 
for agreement, which she usually gave. They must 
both be right, Ben and Miss Cecil, because they were 
both so clever. It was no good Miss Cecil trying to 
educate her, Louie ; she would never be able to talk 
like that, about music, or pictures, or people, or life. 
And when the opera began, she couldn’t make head 
nor tail of it ; for one thing it was all in German. Of 
course, the swan was beautiful to see. 

“ Not a real one, is it?” said Louie. “ Lor ! They 
do make them wonderful, to be sure. But in 
' The Whip ’ they have real horses ; that is a grand 
play ” 

Benjie said “ Hush,” and Louie saw that he had 
coloured a little, and half glanced backwards. The 
people in the row behind them were friends of his. 
Louie said no more till the end of the act. Cecil said 
to her then, “ Isn’t it glorious, Louie ? 

“ It’s pretty,” agreed Louie. “ But they don’t 
seem to speak the words, nor yet to sing them to a 
tune. That’s not like one o’ them musical comedies, 
is it ? ” 

“ Not a bit,” Cecil agreed. " I say, you are under- 
standing it aren’t you ? Shal I go through the story 
again ? ” 

But Louie said she thought she was understanding 
it pretty well. Cecil and Benjie began to argue about 
something again ; the funny thing about their 
arguments was that they were never about anything 
that could possibly matter much in practical life. 


THE CULT 


ii 7 

So Louie supposed that they liked talking for the 
sake of talking ; well, lots of people are like that, 
both in mills and out of them. Girls and their chaps 
— how they do talk away in lunch hour, walking 
outside the mill, eating bread and cheese ! 

There had been a chap that had talked to Louie 
herself before Ben came along ; but he hadn’t talked 
so much or so quickly as Ben and Miss Cecil, nor 
about the same things. Hadn’t his talk — all the old 
mill talk — had more bearing, somehow, on life as it 
was lived ? It had been, most of it, about people ; not 
strange, remote people who had painted odd pictures 
and composed tuneless music ; and not about people 
in the mass, poor people, rich people, sad people, 
dark people, fair people, — how queer to think of 
them in lots like that ! — but about the people, girls 
and fellows, foremen and workers, whom they per- 
sonally knew, and who was walking with who, and 
what they would do on Saturday, and how so-and-so’s 
mother was taken bad, and there was a whist-drive 
on Monday. It was always very direct, very 
personal, very much to the point, very obvious in its 
bearing on daily life. There were things that 
mattered and things that didn’t ; among the things 
that didn’t was certainly the meaning of a chord of 
music out of an opera. Or did such things matter — 
matter perhaps to Ben and Miss Cecil as much as it 
mattered in the mill whether you got your sheet of 
paper and your sheet of copper neatly one by one all 
through the pile ? That didn’t matter to Miss Cecil, 
because she didn’t know about it ; perhaps this 


n8 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


didn’t matter to Louie for similar reasons. Louie 
sighed a little at the glimpse of worlds not realised 
that swung giddily before her tired eyes. Since 
some things were like that, to mill-hands a stumbling- 
block, to the poor foolishness, but to them that under- 
stand . . . were not all things, perhaps, treacherous, 
unsteady, uncertain ? All things, perhaps, and all 
ideas, but — and swiftly one leaped with this back on 
to solid earth that did not fail — all things and ideas, 
possibly, but not all people. People were different ; 
people mattered; people stood like rocks, unswerving, 
immobile, somehow eternal. That was what Miss 
Vickery, the clever young lady, had meant when she 
had said, " But I’d rather be liked for me-myself, I 
think.” Liking mattered desperately much. Once 
again Louie had a queer little hunger that Miss 
Vickery should like her, like her for her-herself. 
Louie had a feeling that would somehow justify her, 
prove something that all the interest, kindness, and 
attention of these other people didn’t prove, for to 
Miss Vickery she wasif’t, she vaguely knew, an idea of 
someone’s that had come to something ; she had to do 
without that halo of interest. 

Slowly, under the influence of the tuneless music 
that she didn’t even like, Louie’s understanding was 
becoming oddly illuminated ; she was getting to see 
more clearly, sitting between Ben and Miss Cecil, who 
were so interested in the music and in her, and who 
talked together of one and — and thought together of 
the other. 

Louie stole a look at her husband’s profile — the 


THE CULT 


119 

obstinate chin that stuck out, the very young, dark 
rough head, the intent, serious brows, knitted in 
concentration. Ben was a lad with a purpose, cer- 
tainly ; everything Ben thought of and did seemed to 
subserve that purpose. And his purpose was to do 
something, the little he could, for social conditions. 
So he had set himself to live the life of the poor, to 
know them better, to see what it was like, the life 
they led. But he liked smith's work too — he did, he 
did, Louie cried to herself, pressing her hard hands 
together in her lap. He loved it, playing with the 
soft white iron, shoeing the horses that come along 
the London road. Ben was such a child, really ; 
such a little eager boy, behind all his big purposes. 
And he had surely done the other things he had done 
partly because he liked to ; — surely ; or had it indeed 
been all to subserve the Purpose, to fulfil the Idea ? 
Wouldn’t that have been too cruel a thing for Ben, 
who handled even animals so tenderly, and was 
shocked when Louie killed mice with the poker, to 
have done ? For Ben was such a kind lad. Only of 
course the gentry were different ; they acted on 
principle, and one couldn't tell where that mightn't 
lead. They were wrapped up in ideas like blankets, 
so that one fumbled for their real selves through 
and couldn't touch them. 

Louie didn't know she was crying. Cecil did, and 
thought it was Wagner, and was encouraged. Louie 
was coming on. 

At the end of the next act she tried to make Louie 
talk about it, but failed. 


120 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


It seemed a long time to the end. When they were 
out in the street again, Anne Vickery passed them 
going home from her office. She nodded and smiled, 
and it was apparent that she might have joined them 
and didn’t. She very likely had something else to do. 
But Louie said apathetically, “ That’s me. She’d 
have come wi’out I was with you.” 

Benjie and Cecil neither of them heard her, 
because Cecil was saying something of her own. 

So that proved it. The one person who had 
weighed Louie ungarmented found her wanting, felt 
bored, stayed away. That proved a whole number 
of things. 

“ Wi’out I was pore,” said Louie in her heart, 
“ they’s none of ’em care. Not one.” 

The skies beat down on baked streets with their 
insupportable glare. 


CHAPTER VII 

A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 

The Crevequers had been seeing off a party of friends 
from the station four miles from Merrilies End, and 
had the rest of the July day before them. They 
motored back, along a white dusty road between 
sunburnt fields, turning aside to visit St. Francis' 
Church in Marie, because it was Saturday, and they 
hadn't been to confession for some weeks. But 
really what was there to confess, on these glorious 
summer days when life smiled so opulently, and needs 
and temptations were so few ? One could scarcely be 
out of humour, even momentarily ; one need never 
be ungenerous, or deceitful, or tempted to remit one's 
own debts. Though of course the strait way of un- 
interesting veracity remained hard of attainment, 
and there wasn’t invariably time for one’s prayers, 
in a life so felicitously full. Anyhow, presumably the 
Crevequers succeeded in recalling some short- 
comings to mind ; having disposed of these, they 
asked their confessor, who was a large, cheerful young 
man, and a friend of theirs, to come back to Merrilies 
End with them, and presently the three of them 


I 2 I 


122 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


dashed at a headlong speed out of the town of Marie, 
and swung along the level road with the faint keen 
breath of the hidden sea in their faces. Merrilies 
End stood in a green garden above the grey stone 
fishing-village that straggled along the beach. From 
a gate in a yew hedge a path ran down over turfy 
cliffs and dropped into the village street, which smelt 
of fish, and sea-weed, and tar, and below it sailing- 
boats lay on wet sands. 

The Crevequers didn’t take the road up to Merrilies 
End, but ran straight down into the village. They 
spent a great deal of their time in the village and on 
the sands, where they kept a boat. 

When they got into the village they got out of the 
motor and asked Mr. Giles the chauffeur, of whom 
they were a little afraid, and to whom they were 
always desperately polite, to take it home. Mr. Giles 
said, would they be in to tea, or if not when, as 
Julia was apt to want to know, with a view to the 
laying of meals. 

A futile desire on Julia’s part. " B-but we don’t 
know ourselves,” the Crevequers explained, a little 
querulous. They were afraid of Julia also. Julia 
asked so many unanswerable questions. “ Of course 
it all d-depends, you see. We might be any time. 
No, we shan’t want tea ; we will have buns and 
suckers on the beach. Tell Julia so, please. And 
she may do anything she likes, of course — go out 
anywhere, you know, and if we come in suddenly 
before anything is ready to eat, we’ll t-take things 
from the larder.” 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 


123 


They spoke with dignity ; they were desirous of 
figuring well before Father Estcourt in their capacity 
of householders and masters of their own servants. 

“ Very good, Miss.” Mr. Giles, expressionless, 
respectful, a little dour, touched his cap and departed. 
The Crevequers heaved a sigh of relief. 

” S-suckers,” said Tommy, and they stopped at 
the sucker shop, which had pink and brown striped 
balls in glass jars, as well as rock cakes and tripe. 
The lady within was a friend of the Crevequers, so 
the purchasing of the suckers took time. They 
finally left the shop with three pennyworth, in varie- 
gated colours, and three rock buns in three paper 
bags, and went down the sands to where the 
Marchesina rocked at anchor on a rising tide. The 
Crevequers took off their shoes and stockings — they 
always did so on every possible occasion — and sum- 
moned Peter Hitchcock to help with the anchor, 
and were soon out on dancing waters, reeling round 
the little cove. The Crevequers’ sailing, like their 
motor-driving, was a little irresponsible ; both had 
elements of excitement. But on this golden evening 
there was hardly enough breeze to give their talents 
much scope ; the Marchesina’ s course was more 
peaceful than usual, as she dipped and lurched from 
cove to cove, the low sunshine mellowing her brown 
sails. 

“ You’re not fishing this evening ? ” said Father 
Estcourt, at ease in the bows. He was a fair, solidly- 
built, massive person, with a slow soft voice and 
slowly twinkling eyes, and immense physical strength, 


124 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


and ten years ago he had captained the Oxford 
Rugby team. 

“ No,” Betty answered, her cheek bulged out with 
a sucker. “ We’re just doing nothing at all this 
evening, for a rest, because you’re tired. Besides, 
we sometimes quarrel when we fish, and that’s a pity 
on a Saturday evening. ... Do you like aniseed 
balls, Father ? If you do, you may have them all, 
because I don’t. They’re the brown striped ones. 
I’m going to put out this into the sea, and have a 
pink one . . . Mrs. Hitchcock is much nicer than 
Giles or Julia, isn’t she ? Giles and Julia are 
rather ...” 

“ Alarming,” the priest lazily put in. 

“ Oh no, not alarming. We’re not afraid of them, you 
know. But rather— rather conceited, don’t you think ? ’ ’ 

“ They think,” said Tommy, in his injured tone, 
“ that they know more than we do about things. 
It’s a lie. They don’t. We merely disagree — and 
when Catholics and heretics disagree, who is likely to 
be right, I should like to know ? We keep nearly 
saying that to them, but never quite, for fear they 
get angry. After all, they can’t help being heretics, 
poor things ; and its jolly lucky they are, or they’d 
have to motor with us to church. But they should 
keep remembering it and feeling humble.” 

“ In a better world,” the priest consoled them, 
“ the tables will no doubt be turned. They will 
have every reason to feel humble then. That is what 
always comforts me about proud Protestants. These 
rock buns are better than one would expect.” 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 125 

" Rock b-buns,” murmured Betty, meditating, 
and trailing her thin brown fingers in cool water. 
" And pink suckers. And the sea and the sands and 
the Marchesina. And the motor. And the puppies. 
And the house and the garden, and the yard, and 
the village, and 1 -lovely weather, and l-loads of money, 
and people to play with. And . . . and everything/' 

“ Deo gr alias,” added Father Estcourt, his mouth 
full of bun. 

“ Yes," said Betty. “ But it seems rather — 
rather waste, not to be able to pass it on more. 
Doesn’t it, Father ? To all the people who haven’t 
got any of it. Some of them come and stay with us; 
but some of them won’t. And they just go about 
looking empty, and they won’t take — oh, not so 
much as a s-sucker.’’ 

“ The poor are always with us,’’ said Father 
Estcourt, who seemed in a professional mood, and 
was also sleepy. “ I can’t say I find, as a rule, that 
they are averse to taking suckers or their equivalent.’’ 
Presently he opened one eye and added, “But what 
you really want to pass on, you know, is the power of 
enjoying the suckers. Some people might suck for 
an hour and still be unfilled. That is what Socialists 
— children of the devil — leave out of account. They 
put the body before the spirit — a heresy eternally 
damned. The Church has always said, pass round 
the wine of life, and leave the bottles to look after 
themselves.’’ 

He shut his eyes again, and Betty said over his 
head to Tommy, who was busy with the sail, “ But 


126 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


of course that’s not true, is it, Tommy ? He seems to 
be forgetting all about the c-corporal works of mercy. 
It’s a pity he’s so sleepy this evening.” 

“ He’s always sleepy,” said Tommy. “ And I 
daresay he’s hungry, too. Perhaps it would be kind 
to take him home now, and let him eat something. 
He’ll wake up then, and perhaps sing us a song to 
my banjo. Then I’ll take him back in the car; he 
likes the car.” 

As they voyaged back with the after-glow in their 
eyes, all the smooth evening sea was a pink glory. 
Betty sang to herself softly, one cheek bulged out — 

“ Difendi o Caterina, 

Da peste, fame e guerra, 

II popol di Varazze, 

In mare e in terra . . .” 

They slipped round a rocky promontory into their 
own bay, and there on the turfy cliffs above the tiny 
grey village stood the low-winged grey house, 
sprawling in green gardens, fronting the winds of the 
eastern seas. 

Father Estcourt opened his eyes and looked at it. 

“ Peace — honour — dignity — emblem of stability 
and rest. You won’t keep it, you know ; it's not for 
you. Don’t you feel it, vagabonds ? ” 

“ No,” said Tommy, shrilly and promptly. “ It’s 
ours, and Giles and Julia are jolly well not going to 
have it. They think Cousin Arthur left it to them, 
but he didn’t. Y ou come in and hear us beard them. 
We walk in and shout f Julia.’ ” 

“ The ringing of bells is not unknown,” mur- 
mured the priest. 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 127 


“ We walk in and ring,” Tommy amended hastily. 
“ Julia comes — quite at once ; she obeys us in a 
moment. We say, ‘ Dinner, Julia, by the yew 
hedge/ Julia says ‘ Yes, sir. I think it is about to 
rain, sir. The glass is gone down, sir.’ (They tap 
it, you know ; cheek ; they’ve no business to go 
sending our glass down.) We repeat, * D-dinner at 
once, Julia, by the yew hedge.’ Julia goes and lays it. 
She has to. She does, I tell you. Rain, indeed ! 
As if we didn’t dislike rain more than Julia does. As 
if it could rain an evening like this, whatever they 
make the beastly glass do. So we dine, by the yew 
hedge. And every evening Julia has the bother of 
putting away again the clothes she hoped she was 
going to make us wear. She puts them on our beds. 
White shirts. Black coats. Black ties. As if 
the evening wasn’t the best time in the day to do 
things in. So she has to put them away again. 
Lots of trouble for her, isn’t it ? but she never 
tires . . . Oh, we’ve worn them sometimes, just to 
spite her. She doesn’t like to find them next 
morning all wet and sandy.” 

“ She like us to be respectable when people come 
to dinner,” Betty added. “ The respectable people 
who live round, you know — Cousin Arthur’s friends. 
But I’m sure they don’t mind. They wear what 
they like, and we wear what we like. They’re nice, 
most of them ; they make us laugh. We play real 
games with them — golf, and tennis and croquet, 
you know ; that’s the sort of thing they like playing. 
We aren’t much good, but we practise quite a lot ; 


128 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


it’s fun. Only most of them won’t play on Sundays ; 
that seems waste of a day for them, as they like 
playing so much. They live too far from the centre 
of civilisation, Algy Fenchurch says — besides not 
being Catholics, of course. If you’re a heretic living 
in the country, you feel you mustn’t do anything 
nice or useful on Sunday. Like Jews on Saturdays ; 
how funny, isn’t it. Julia and Giles are like that, 
too. They go to chapel, and that seems to make 
people worse still about Sundays . . . Tommy, we 
didn’t put our shoes and stockings high enough up ; 
they’ve been d-drowned.” 

“ My brown boots,” Tommy mourned. “ And 
my pink socks. And that’s the second lot this week. 
Betty, Julia’ll be awfully angry. What shall we 
say ? ” They landed and dragged the Marchesina 
up on to dry sands. Peter Hitchcock told them that 
“ The shoes and stockin’s were to sea.” Tommy 
hinted that he might have effected a timely rescue ; 
one could imagine Peter placidly watching the 
catastrophe, pipe in mouth. 

“ Shall we have a rescue expedition ? ’’the Creve- 
quers wondered. “ Diving from the boat ? ” 

That might have been fun ; but they remembered 
that Father Estcourt was hungry, and deferred the 
project till next morning. So they went barefoot 
up the cliff path that ended at a little green door in 
a grey garden wall. 

The garden, rambling and sweet and yew-shadowed, 
was mellow in evening light and happy with animals. 
Disreputable curs gambolled and grinned and 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 129 

snuffled in shrubberies ; a three-legged, blue-eyed 
kitten waved his tail from a red aloe pot on a stone 
pedestal ; a lean billy goat pawed the croquet lawn ; 
the tank round the fountain was afloat with a brood 
of golden ducklings ; everywhere were guinea-pigs. 

A cynical-lipped gardener stepped forward and 
said, “ They bunnies have gone ’ome.” 

Tommy said, “ What on earth do you mean ? 
You’ve let them escape.” His voice shrilled with 
passion ; probably the gardener was another con- 
ceited Protestant. He shook his head smiling, 
grimly. “ They’re gone above, sir. Dogs. Bunnies 
got out ; dogs hunted ’em ; caught ’em ; worried 
’em dead. They're all gone.” 

“ D-don’t look like that,” stammered Tommy. 
" D-don’t, I tell you.” 

“ Collect the bodies,” said Betty, with a small 
sigh, “ and we’ll bury them. We’ll have a proper 
funeral. Oh, poor darlings, I do hope they died 
happy. They never really minded being hunted, 
of course. And dogs will be dogs ; but we must 
beat them, Tommy, all the same. I wonder if they 
each got one. This is what comes of making the 
lion eat straw with the lamb, and the ox lie down 
with the cockatrice. It never really works.” 

Then Louie Bunter came towards them, and she 
was as they had seen her first, clasping a rabbit in 
her arms with hungry eyes. 

“ I could only save one,” she said, and gave it 
to Betty. Then her eyes met Father Estcourt’s, 
and grew dark and wide, as with a memory. 

K 


130 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


But Betty said, “ Hurrah. Have you both come ?” 
and Louie shook her head. “ Only me. I thought 
you wouldn’t mind, being as how you said we could. 
I come from London. We was with his father and 
mother . . . And they were that kind to me, 
talkin’ to me and showin’ me things . . . And . . . 
I come away this afternoon.” 

“ Hurrah,” said Betty again. “ Let’s all have 
dinner. A proper dinner, because we’re all hungry. 
Go and tell Julia, Tommy, and I’ll take Mrs. Bunter 
up to her room. What fun that you’ve come.” 

Louie went in with her very simply. It was all 
quite natural and unembarrassing at Merrilies End ; 
people didn’t notice one another in the same way 
as they did in London, but seemed to take each other 
for granted, and treated one person very much like 
another. That was restful. 

They had dinner in the garden, and the Creve- 
quers babbled in their infantine way of childish things, 
and Father Est court woke up from his inertness and 
told stories, and Louie wasn’t asked how anything 
struck her, or expected to give her views on the rich 
or the poor or anything else. It was like old days 
at Wattles, before she had become an idea of some- 
one’s and interesting. Louie had a peaceful feeling, 
beneath the dull ache of her soul, that she had found 
at last something she had long sought for in vain. 
And, if these were the right relations, how unutter- 
ably wrong were the others. . . . 

It was part of the simplicity of the atmosphere 
that Louie, coming abruptly, as they sat in the dusk 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 131 

after dinner, on this so utter wrongness, could 
without shame do the natural thing. It was a 
wrongness that demanded tears, and tears she 
gave it, breaking suddenly into them, surprised out 
of her numb composure, struck through and 
through by the completeness of realisation at 
last. 

Betty’s hand touched her knee in the darkness, 
and Betty stammered very gently, “ Oh, I’m sorry. 
Would you like to come to bed at once ? We’ve 
been d-drivelling away, and all the time you must be 
so awfully tired.” 

“ It’s such a rotten journey,” Tommy added, 
with concern. 

Louie, having begun to cry, could not very easily 
stop. It was as if she must cry away here and now 
all that tragedy that so hurt her ; cry it away, and 
then be sensible and firm and calm for ever. So in 
the soft shadows of the gathering night she wept, 
and Betty said again, “ Oh, I’m s-sorry. Can’t we 
help at all ? ” 

“ Seem as if when things is all wrong, there ain’t 
nothin’ for it but to back out and pretend as how 
they ain’t happened,” Louie concluded huskily at 
last. “ Being as how there’s no mendin’ — none at 
all. An’ it don’t matter very particular, so long as 
you can back out. But that would hurt you, to go 
on . . . You’ll excuse me talkin’. Seem as if that 
were right, to come here an’ straighten things out a 
bit. An’ now I’ve done it, an' I’ve got ’em straight, 
an’ I won’t bother you no more, bein’ as how you’ll 


132 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


be tired of me disturbin’ you, and if I might go to 
bed . . . 

“ Yes,” said Betty. “ Oh yes. Come in now — 
if you wouldn’t like to come down to the sea a little, 
first. We’d love to take you, you know . . . but 
of course you’re tired. Come in.” 

Louie stood up, unsteadily. Her face glimmered 
wet and pallid out of the shadows. Father Est- 
court’s sleepy, keen eyes watched her closely. He 
got up and stood looking down at her from his great 
height — a massive, inexpressive person. He said 
gently, “ John is dead,” less questioning than 
assuming, and asked no corroboration from her. 
He had known that John was dead directly he had 
seen her eyes as she had come to them with the 
rabbit in her arms. 

“ The Monday after you done him,” said Louie 
apathetically. 

He bent his head. 

“ I’m glad,” she added, with a sort of triumph, 
“ as how I had him done. I didn’t ought to, on the 
quiet from Ben and all ; but I'm glad. For if so 
be as there is anythin’ to follow, John’ll be sure to 
’ave got it. Won’t he, sir ? ” 

“ Quite sure,” said Father Estcourt. “ John is 
in God’s hands.” 

Louie drew a long breath. 

“ An’ he’ll never be a great pore man, like Ben 
meant. Ben meant to bring ’im up to help make the 
world better . . . but he was just a mite of a baby, 
an’ he died. . . . and Ben’s notion came to nothin’. 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 


133 


Pore Ben ; I ain't done 'im a mite o' good, all along. 
Seem as if I must spoil 'is notions even then, goin’ 
about to 'ave John done behind his back." 

“ John," said Father Estcourt, professionally, 
“ being an individual soul to be saved, rather than 
a ‘ notion ' of his father’s, had every right to his 
own salvation. Even the youngest of us has that 
right — must possess his own soul and work out his 
own salvation, independently of the plans of others." 

“ An’ there it is," said Louie, agreeing. “ An’ 
that’s what they don’t understand, up in London. 
. . . Good-night, sir." 

Betty and she went in together. 

Father Estcourt said to Tommy, “ A curious 
instance, that. I was riding through a Cambridge- 
shire village in the spring, and stopped at a forge. 
I wanted some mending done at the same time, and 
the smith (who I gather is a friend of yours ?) sent 
me up to his cottage for needle and thread. I found 
a little lame girl downstairs ; she went up to fetch 
me what I wanted, and came down with the message 
that I was to come up and ‘ do ’ her sister’s baby. 
I did, of course. After the ceremony I found that 
the parents were not even Protestants, but the 
father a firm secularist, and the mother acquiescent 
in his beliefs. The father was not to know anything 
about it ; in fact, the reason the mother had sum- 
moned a strange priest was because she couldn’t 
very well have the local parson and keep the secret. 
Her own views on the subject seemed vague ; oh, it 
was very simple really ; she accepted her husband’s 


134 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


beliefs, like everything else of his, but she was a 
mother before a secularist, and wanted to switch 
‘ John ' on to any good that might be going for 
him, though probably, since Ben said so, it was all 
a mare’s nest. Anyhow, I had to promise solemnly 
not to let Ben know. . . . And so John died next 
week. Poor girl ! And now she seems pretty far 
through, doesn’t she ? What’s the story, I wonder ? ” 

Tommy shook his head. “ I don’t know, except 
that she’s beastly miserable. I suppose she and 
he have differed. He’s a good sort, you know, and 
awfully nice, though with funny ideas about things. 
Works like anything all the time, and thinks every- 
one should, and hates money. And reasons , you 
know, and does things on principle, and is awfully 
unhappy if they don’t fit. Seem as how ” (the 
Crevequers were very susceptible to the manner of 
speech of their friends) “ he was playing a game of 
chess all the time. Don’t you know ? Then when 
something goes wrong they knock the board over, 
that sort. ... I shouldn’t wonder if they’re best 
apart, him and her. Now I think I’d better take 
you back, hadn’t I ? ” 

Father Estcourt, getting up and relighting his 
pipe, said (naturally) “ What people of that sort 
want is to be Catholics. It’s so simple really. For 
it’s all the sin of pride, and Holy Church murders 
pride and teaches the virtue of simple humility. 
She also teaches the folly of leaving the individual 
out of account, since her mission is to the souls of 
individuals. She says . . .” And so forth. Priests 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 135 

Tommy knew, must be allowed their occasional hour 
on the stump ; and of course it was all true beyond a 
doubt, though the Crevequers, had they been on the 
stump, would rather have said, “ What people of 
that sort — people of any sort — want, is to have a 
good time at the fair, and throw rings round all the 
objects of their desire, and hit the cocoa-nuts they aim 
at." Given that you don't, that you spend your 
money and miss the cocoa-nuts and the alarum 
clocks, and even the salt-cellars, there remain for 
the empty-handed the music of the merry-go-round 
and the sight of the less empty-handed still shying 
and swinging, and — well, all the glorious resources 
that a fair has even for the penniless. Only plunge 
into it and see, and choose your company with dis- 
cretion, and the fair will do the rest. In short, don't 
try to mould life, but let it mould you. So perhaps, 
after all. Father Estcourt, with his Holy Church 
that murders the sin of pride, and the Crevequers 
with their fair, were on the same tack and meant the 
same thing. 

Benjamin Bun ter, walking into Merrilies End on 
the following morning, meant quite another thing. 
His boots were white with July dust, and his eyes 
tired with travelling, and his face damp and pale with 
the heat, and his chin aggressively prominent. He 
found Louie sitting in the garden, watching her host 
and hostess quarrelling over croquet, a game they 
played with the ecstatic fervour of the novice. They 
had been to church early, and a little to their sur- 
prise Louie had accompanied them. Perhaps she 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


136 

had learnt to expect that any of the Crevequers’ 
pursuits would be enjoyable ; though their form of 
worship was certainly “ proper queer ” to the 
uninitiated. Louie hadn’t been to church for some 
time ; her life hadn’t left her much time for it, and 
the Robinson family had a traditional feud with the 
vicar, and then of course Ben had come, with his own 
theories of life ; and church-going, she had learnt, was 
a relic of a darker age. But now Louie was in an 
experimental mood. 

The Crevequers were delighted to see Benjie. He 
arrived opportunely, in the middle df a passionate 
scene of recrimination. They flung down their 
mallets and welcomed him. 

“ Hurrah ! Now we shall be four for tennis. I 
wish you’d told us, and we could have met you. 
You didn’t walk up all the way ? How tired you must 
be. L-let’s all come and bathe.” 

Benjie gave his rather nice, grave smile at them. 

“ It does seem rotten to break in on you like this, 
so suddenly. But I came to speak to my wife. I 
stayed at the inn in the village last night. I arrived 
at midnight, so I couldn’t come up then.” 

" Oh you’d have found us somewhere about,” 
said Betty. " Not Mrs. Bunter, though ; she’d 
gone to bed. I wish you’d come up and slept here ; 
what a shame.” 

Louie, whose eyes hung on Benjie’s face, said, 
“ How’d you know I were here ? ” Benjie coloured. 
He hadn’t meant to give away Louie’s secret flight. 
But after all the pedlar people didn’t matter ; they 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 137 


thought nothing odd, any more than kittens would. 

“ I don’t know. I suppose I guessed. I came on 
the chance, anyhow ; then I found out for certain at 
the station that you’d arrived. I suppose I — 
thought it likely.” 

Now he came to think of it, it had been a little odd. 
He hadn’t even speculated ; he had just come. 

“ Well,” said Tommy, “ c-come and bathe, 
will you ? ” 

Benjie said " All right.” 

Betty looked at Louie. “ Shall we, too ? ” 

Louie hesitated a moment, then got up. “ That 
would be nice,” she said. She was coming on in the 
business of living ; first church, then a bathe. 

So they all four bathed in the golden July noon, in 
an intensely blue sea. Louie, who couldn’t swim, sat 
waist-deep in ripples, and Betty splashed lazily 
about near her. Both the Crevequers were more 
used to the Italian fashion of bathing, which is to lie 
in the edge of the sea all day, with intervals for drying 
in the sun, than to the energetic British duck, swim 
out and return. Benjie, of course, ducked and swam 
out, with his usual deliberate vigour and determi- 
nation of purpose, and Tommy swam with him till 
he was tired of the monotony, then he turned on his 
back and lay and looked at the sun and tried to catch 
fishes with his toes. 

Out of the sun-webbed blue laver they came at 
last, warm and languid and sticky and salt. You 
are not the same after a bathe as before. You 
return to the dusty world either braced, or enervated. 


133 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


or with a slightly shifted scale of values, or with some 
quite new vision. The water-vision may or may not 
work on the dry land; but it is, anyhow, interesting. 
You may come back and see men as trees walking — 
or trees as men. 

After they had lunched, the Crevequers went off 
to some region of their own, from which cries of ex- 
citement, joy, and rage faintly penetrated to the ears 
of Benjie and Louie, who sat together in the garden, 
in the shade of the large copper-beech. 

Benjie then drew out of his pocket a crumpled sheet 
of note-paper, and unfolded it with his puzzled frown. 

“ What did you mean, Louie ? ” he said. “You 
say, ‘ I am going away for a bit to think things 
straight.’ What things did you mean, exactly? ” 

Louie said, “ Oh Ben, everything. How it was 
as things was different from what I thought once — 
an’ what to do — an’ all. You know.” Her voice 
pleaded with him to know, to be intelligent and 
understand. 

“ But,” he said, " are they different ? How ? 
How, Louie ? And what things ? ” He had got his 
first in his tripos quite easily, but still he wasn’t 
very intelligent, even after his bathe. 

“ Well,” admitted Louie, “ perhaps not different. 
But I mean I come to see how it was. See here, 
Ben.” She paused, casting about how to express 
these things that he, with all his superior wisdom and 
learning, should have known. It was difficult for 
an inarticulate person, who had never learnt to 
express complicated things, but Louie had a try. 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 139 

“You see, Ben, I thought as how, when you wanted 
me to marry you, that was because you wanted me 
for myself. Because you liked me. But since, I 
come to see as how it was more likely because I was 
pore. I come to see that because all of them — all 
your folk, nearly — on’y liked me for that — because 
I was strange, as it were, and not one o’ their sort, 
and they felt an interest. But they didn’t all feel 
an interest. Miss Vickery, now ; I thought to my- 
self, Miss Vickery ain’t interested in the pore as such ; 
if Miss Vickery likes me, it’ll be for me myself. So I 
waited to see. An’ she didn’t take to me. So that 
showed ; no one couldn’t take to me, none o’ your 
sort o’ people, for me myself. Bein’ as how I’m stupid, 
and don’t know nothin’, and how should they ? So 
I thought, it’s the same with Ben. Ben never cared 
for me but that I was a pore working girl, and that’s 
the sort he wanted for a wife, bein’ as how he’s 
interested in pore folk, and helpin’ ’em on an' all, and 
takin’ to smith’s work, as he wern’t born to, just to 
be one of ’em. That’s how it were, I come to see ; 
you took me along with the forge an’ all the rest. 
And for a while I didn’t mind particular. An’ if 
John had lived it would have seem different, John 
bein’ part of the plan, as it were. But ’e died — ’’ 
her voice quivered momentarily, “ an’ you an’ me 
was left alone. An’ it seem as how we ought to — to 
love each other, Ben,’’ — she crimsoned suddenly — 
“ an’ as how nothin’ else should rightly count. An’ 
then it come to me, Ben’s that young and clever, an' 
a gentleman born, an’ he sees things different, an’ he 


I 4 0 VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 

can marry for a sort of game, but I can’t, an’ that’s 
how it is.” 

Benjie’s eyes at first were on her face, and a slow 
dismay grew in them as she talked. When she 
flushed, he too turned a dull red, and turned away, 
and leant his forehead on his hand. He stayed so 
after she had done, plucking at the daisies on the grass 
with one hand and shading his face with the other. 

At last he looked up, and spoke with difficulty. 

“ You’ve said some rather dreadful things, Louie. 
And I’ve been trying to think quite honestly how far 
they are true. In so far as they are, I want you at 
least to believe that I never knew them myself till 
you showed me. I suppose you’re — of course you 
are — much wiser and more understanding than I am. 
I don’t want to think so. I would rather be able to 
tell you at once that you are fanciful and morbid, 
and quite off the rails about the whole business. But 
I suppose no good ever came out of not being entirely 
honest ; anyhow, I can’t be anything else with you. 
And to a certain extent I see that you’re right. Of 
course I saw it all along as regards my people and 
their attitude, and it made me pretty sick ; but I 
never applied it to myself. I never saw that they 
were only taking you as — as I suppose I had taken 
you myself at first, only more so. . . And now I 
don’t know what I can say. It seems so futile to ask 
you to forgive me. I think instead I want to ask 
you to try to move your point of view a little. 
Granting that I did too much rule out — well, emotion 
— from my scheme of life — it wasn’t, you know. 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 141 

because I was wanting to offer you anything less 
than the best ; it wasn’t by way of a second best ; it 
was honestly and simply because, to me, that was 
the best way. I offered you the highest thing I 
knew — the best idea I had.” 

“ An’ I didn’t want no ideas at all,” Louie cried, 
within herself, “ I just wanted Ben.” 

“ You see,” Benjie went on, frowning his puzzled, 
boy’s frown, “ I still think that is the best idea there 
is. I still think one may rule out personal emotion 
and construct one’s life on a basis of — of other things 
— of sense and reason, and the ideas one believes in. 
I believe myself that those things — the principles one 
lives by — are above everything else ; infinitely above 
personal tastes and preferences and so on. I hope 
I should never ask a person to share my life merely 
because I was fond of her, though of course that 
would always be one of the things one would take 
into consideration, if only because the thing couldn’t 
possibly work without it. But there seem to me to 
be other and larger and much more important con- 
siderations. Well, that is my own personal opinion. 
Where I went wrong was in not ascertaining for 
certain that it was yours too. I thought I had ; I 
did really, Louie. But I was wrong ; I was an ass. 
And I’m most horribly sorry and ashamed about 
that. And I ask you to try to forgive me, if you can.” 

“Oh, forgive,” said Louie. “ It ain’t like that.” 

“Well,” said Benjie, troubled and abrupt; “I 
only see one thing to do in the matter. We must try 
again. Will you, Louie ? ” 


142 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


" It ’ud be just the same,” said Louie, pinching her 
hard fingers together to keep from crying. “ It 
wouldn’t be any different, Ben. I can’t think like 
you, an’ you can’t feel like me — so there’s an end.” 

It certainly looked like an impasse. But Benjie, 
a determined young man, tilted at it again. 

“ Louie, I think we shall be able to make something 
of it, I really do, if we go at it again, in the right way. 
Oh, don’t let’s give up. I beg your pardon for all 
the mistakes I’ve made all along — I know I’m a 
blundering ass — and can’t we forget them, and go on 
and try to be happy ? ” 

Twisting her handkerchief tightly in her two hands 
(for she knew she might at any moment break into 
tears and want it, though she was trying so hard) 
she stated the issue simply — the clear, poignant issue 
they had arrived at through so much complexity. 

“ But you don’t love me, Ben. And I don’t want 
to live with you without you do. There’s all it is.” 

He said, stammering like a Crevequer, “ B-but I 
do — I do, Louie. I do love you, very much.” 

Her wistful look scanned his square, honest boy’s 
face, with the blue, deep-hung eyes that could not lie. 

“ When I say love, Ben, my dear, I mean something 
as I don’t think you’re rightly old enough to under- 
stand. I’m not meanin’ just a kind feelin’ like. You 
don't love me, an’ you never have and never will, an’ 
how should you ? An’ I won’t live with you without 
you do ; I was always one to be proud, ’ Arry tell me ; 
an’ I’m goin’ home to father and mother an’ the mill. 
They’ll all say its proper queer, me doing that ; but 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 


143 


I'm not one to mind what folks say, and you ain’t 
either, Ben. So we’ll just settle it so. An’ you shall 
go on workin’ an’ bein’ a smith an’ goin’ among the 
pore, an’ we’ll be good friends an’ no more. . . . Seem 
hard as how we can’t undo it an’ set each other free ; 
you’re but a young chap to be tied up for life. ...” 
She was thinking of all the clever young ladies, like 
Miss Cecil, beyond the stretch of Ben’s tether. It was 
the thought of Miss Cecil, with her eager interest in 
Louie and her outpoured flood of ideas, that suddenly 
brought the tears. 

“ Oh, Ben — oh, Ben — that was a proper foolish 
thing we done ! ” 

Benjie was always like a troubled child in the face 
of tears. But he strove still after Reason, his life- 
long supporter. 

“ Don’t cry, Louie — oh, don’t. Of course we’ll 
undo it as far as we can, if you like. That is, we’ll 
live apart as long as you wish, and I won't bother 
you. Yes, you’re quite right ; that’s the only 
reasonable solution, if you feel like that about it. 
Only any time you change your mind and are 
willing to give it another try, I shall always be there, 
waiting, you know. . . . Oh, queer — no, of course 
we don’t mind what people call us ; nothing counts 
but you and me, and what we decide is best to do. 
But don’t let’s be in a hurry ; let’s think it over 
thoroughly and discuss it again later, shall we ? 
Well, there’s an end for the moment, anyhow. . . .” 

There was ; because the Crevequers were emerging 
from the back regions, piloting two visitors of 


144 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


apparently alien extraction and certainly dis- 
reputable personal appearance. 

“ The inn wouldn’t take them in,” Tommy ex- 
plained, “ so they’re coming to spend the night 
with us.” 

The guests, who had a distinctively Slavonic 
wealth both of hair and nails, smiled and bowed in 
a way Benjie thought obsequious. He sympathised 
with the inn. He was a broad-minded youth, and 
objected to the Aliens Act, but when one met them 
face to face . . . Benjie, in fact, was a typical 
product of his generation and his university — a 
personally fastidious democrat. But it is a coura- 
geous type, and Benjie put his personal tastes 
studiously behind him. Only he didn’t believe that 
these aliens were Workers ; at a glance he put them 
in Class III (those who didn’t work though they 
needed the money). Well, the Crevequers them- 
selves were, of course, no class at all. Benjie 
reverted to his attitude of judge. They didn’t work, 
these idle, frivolous people, and they encouraged 
others to be idle and frivolous too. Why, in the 
name of reason, didn’t they give these miserable 
Poles a job in the garden, and give them a wage for it, 
instead of extending to them this childish, fruitless 
hospitality ? They were probably pauperising the 
countryside. Benjie, in sudden revolt against these 
cheerful representatives of the forces of waste and 
wantonness that he so hated, got up abruptly. 

“ I must go,” he said. “ I want to get back to town 
as soon as possible. I must go and look out a train.” 


A GOOD TIME AT THE FAIR 


145 


The Crevequers protested. They didn’t under- 
stand in the least what he felt about them and their 
ways. They didn’t know that he couldn’t breathe 
easily in that atmosphere of immoral idleness and 
unprincipled waste. Betty did indeed see that his 
forehead had contracted slightly ; but she supposed 
it to be the atmosphere of the aliens, not of Merrilies 
End. It would indeed have been rather a relief to 
have been able to say to the aliens, as they had said to 
the Bunters, “ Come and bathe ’’—but that was out 
of the question, of course, with aliens, who aren’t 
fond of water. 

After all, Benjie didn’t go till next morning, 
because there wasn’t a train. He spent the evening 
with the Crevequers and the aliens, who jabbered to 
each other confidentially and volubly, and at intervals 
remarked to the rest of the company, with conscious 
virtue, “ Veree poor men. Seek work.” They 
might have spared themselves both remarks, as the 
first was obvious, and the second was regarded by 
Benjie as a lie, and by the Crevequers as the announce- 
ment of a quite misguided proceeding. 

Louie didn’t leave Merrilies End with Benjie ; after 
all, why should she, since in future their ways 
diverged ? The Crevequers pressed her to stay on a 
little, and she did. Unlike Benjie, she found it 
extraordinarily restful to be there. Between two 
difficult pieces of road, it was as if she had strayed 
into a green playground, and sat down to rest awhile. 
A merry Elysium, where one played children’s games, 
and nothing mattered outside, and one stopped 

L 


146 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


fighting with the world, but let it carry one where it 
would, and hand-in-hand with the other children 
one walked expectant through the fair. . . . 

It was, of course, all that Benjie disapproved of 
most. He shook its dust from his feet He refused 
the guinea-pig that was offered to him, and went 
empty-handed away. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE WAYFARING MAN 

On Sundays the men of East Anglia stand in the 
road. They do not do anything in particular there ; 
it is the day of rest ; they just stand, and talk a little, 
and look at the girls going by to church or chapel or 
elsewhere. For the girls and women do not stand in 
the road much ; they have other things to do, and 
a practical feminine vigour of purpose. So they walk 
out, and take their chaps walking with them, unless 
they are seized with the annoying feminine desire to 
be inside a place of worship ; in that case their chaps 
either have to go in too, or wait for them in the road 
with the other chaps till they come out. Women 
are like that ; one has to put up with it. That they 
like to show off their Sunday clothes seems to their 
chaps the easiest explanation. 

When one stands in the road, any little interest is 
welcome. Sunday afternoon games are not much in 
vogue in East Anglia, which has a strongly Protest- 
ant bias. After tea there is very often a Salvation 
Army, and that is more or less interesting, of course, 
and the band cheers one up. Sometimes for a week 


148 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


or more on end there is a People’s Van, in a field by 
the road, and that, too, has points. The Protestant 
sects show more skill in the matter of catching the 
outdoor Sunday-keepers than the National Church 
has yet displayed. When the Church comes out into 
the open fields — sends itinerant priests about the 
countryside to preach the gospel to the road- 
standers, then there will be less talk of the Church 
losing her hold on the people ; her attractions will 
be set forth, surely not in vain, before the eyes of 
those who spend their Sundays waiting to be interested 
in whatever comes along the road to interest them. 

Towards the middle of a fine August a shabby old 
gypsy van made its appearance in the Cambridge- 
shire villages. It was driven by a pale young man in 
a dusty grey flannel suit and a soft dusty tweed hat, 
and he seemed to be a sort of carpenter, for his van 
was full of very firm and solid pieces of furniture — 
chairs and tables and benches, and massive things 
that he called settles, and corner cupboards, and 
carved mantel-pieces, that he tried to sell. Sound 
joiner’s work, he said it was ; none of your cheap and 
nasty blocks and glue. And he offered to give 
carving lessons gratis in the evenings to anyone who 
cared to come. And when he wasn’t trying to sell 
his furniture — and he didn’t sell much of it, for 
Cambridgeshire on the whole opined that it was 
proper queer and wouldn’t fit in with anything else 
in their houses — he was preaching in the village 
streets. 

He came on a fine Sunday morning to Farley, and 


THE WAYFARING MAN 


149 


drew up his van at the cross roads, where a group of 
the men of Farley were enjoying the air. They 
watched the new-comer’s movements with detached 
interest. First he gave his horse a feed, bran out of 
a bucket, then a drink from the pump. Then he 
climbed on to the front seat of his van again, and 
thoughtfully ate two slices of brown bread and cheese, 
and drank a mug of beer. Meanwhile he looked 
about him, at the houses that lined the four roads, 
and frowned as he did so. The youths of Farley 
said, “Cheer up, old cock. Give us a bite, I say. 
Y^iaddy yi yi yi yi. Don’t yer mind us ; we ain’t 
lookin’ at yer, not ’alf. Speech, gov’ner. Enjies his 
food and drink, don’ he. Y^iaddy. ...” and 
so forth ; exactly what the youths in other villages 
say on like occasions. 

The young man did not appear to be noticing them 
particularly. But when he had finished his meal he 
turned and looked down on the little crowd, and 
said, in a soft, aggrieved, very young voice, “ What 
perfectly beastly houses you have in Farley.’’ 

There was a growl of mixed laughter and dis- 
approval. 

“ What’s wrong with ’em ? Pity ’e stays so long 
to look at ’em, ain’t it. What are they like where 
you come from, eh, young cock ? You mind your 
own business, and we’ll mind ours. Englishman’s 
’ouse is ’is castle, / says. Farley ’ouses are good 
enough for Farley men.’’ 

“ Obviously they are not,’’ returned the young man 
in the van, “for you all prefer to stand in the road 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


150 

rather than stay in them. I am with you there ; 
I wouldn’t stay in any of those houses for a moment 
if they were mine. Please don’t think me rude . .” 

Mockery here. ” ’Ear that, Bert ? We ain't to 
think ’im rude, the little pet. What price that van 
o’ yours, any’ow, gov’ner ? Some folks aven’t got no 
’ouse at all, and mayhap they find the grapes a bit 
sour.” 

" Some people,” the young man agreed, ” have no 
house at all. And other people have no van at all. 
One can be happy without either, though it is more 
comfortable to have one or the other. But my point 
is . . .” (“ Now ’e’s gettin’ to it, Bert. You listen 

now.”) ...” that if you do have a house — or a 
van — it may as well be a reasonably constructed 
one — ” (” Cut the words down, gov’ner. We don’t 

pay you by the piece ”) — ” a decently built one. 
Now I ask you to look at these houses about us. 
That row there — Rosemary Villas, they appear to be 
called. Do you like them ? ” 

Everyone looked at Rosemary Villas. Rosemary 
Villas were four in number, in two pairs of twins ; 
they were of pale yellow brick, and had curiously 
battlemented porches, and a great deal of wall-space, 
and a minimum of blue slate roof. Rosemary Villas 
were typical of the new Cambridgeshire architecture 
which is displacing the old thatched and whitewashed 
cottage. Fresh Rosemary Villas spring to birth like 
mushrooms in a night. 

The men of Farley considered Rosemary Villas, 
and passed a favourable verdict. 


THE WAYFARING MAN 


151 

“ What's the 'arm ? " enquired someone. “ New, 
they are. Ain't done you any 'arm, old chap, 'ave 
they ? Why can’t you let 'em be, then ? They’re 
good enough for Farley.” 

The sententious young man said, “ They’re bad 
enough for a much worse place. Look -here now, why 
do you let the cheap builder spoil your village like 
that ? Why don’t you get your houses properly 
architected ? I know why, of course. Yoy think 
you’re being economical. The speculative builder 
builds the house that costs him as little as possible ; 
well, he's merely taking money out of the pockets of 
the people who’ve got to live in it. D’you think a 
house like that lasts ? D’you think it can be repaired ? 
I tell you, in thirty years those slate roofs will want 
renewing, and when you want to reroof you’ll find 
those cheap roof-timbers shrunk and warped so you 
can’t do anything with them. And the foundations 
— do you know what sort of foundations a house like 
that has ? I can tell you one thing about them — 
they're foundations that can only be made good by 
complete underpinning, and I couldn’t afford that if 
it was my house. Why Rosemary Villas would come 
down if a big motor van passed along this road. 
That's the sort of house you get by letting the 
speculative builder have his head. Now we turn to 
thewside . . 

A choleric faced man had come up during the last 
two minutes with his wife and daughter. They were 
on their way back from chapel — chapel and church, 
yielding up their worshippers, were considerably 


152 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


swelling the lecturer’s audience — and had stopped to 
listen, arrested by a remark as to the habits of the 
speculative builder. When the young man turned 
to the inside, he stepped forward and said, 
“ Excuse me” 

A mild cheer backed him up. “ That’s right, 
Mr. Potts ; you give it ’im. ’Ere’s the man you’ve 
bin talkin’ about, gov’ner. ’Ere’s the man as builds 
the villas.” 

The young man in the van raised his tweed hat 
politely. “I’m awfully pleased to meet you, Mr. 
Potts. Did you hear what I was saying ? ” 

“ I did that,” said Mr. Potts, “ and I’d like you to 
hear what I’ve got to say, young feller. I don’t 
allow any man to come along and say my houses are 
going to come down, nor that I’m taking money out 
of any other man’s pocket. It’s the first time 
anyone’s said that of me, and it’ll be the last. Why, 
I could give you in charge for libel, and for brawling 
in the road, if I had a mind. What’s wrong with the 
houses, eh ? Come down at a van, would they ? 
You drive yours along and try.” (“ That’s one in the 
eye for you, young chap, ain’t it ? You do as ’e says, 
an’ we’ll walk be’ind and pick up the pieces. Y ou an’ 
your van ! Give it ’im ’ot, Mr. Potts.”) “ What’s 
your game young feller ? ” proceeded Mr. Potts. 
“ Want to collar the Farley building trade, do you ? 
One o’ them harchitects , that’s what he is,” he in- 
formed the audience, with concentrated bitterness on 
the word. 

" I assure you,” explained the young man, eagerly, 


THE WAYFARING MAN 


153 


“ I have no sort of interest in the architecting or 
building trades. I am entirely disinterested — except 
that I make tables and chairs, and of course I should 
like to sell them ; but I hadn’t come to that yet. As 
to the houses themselves, I have no game except to 
get rid of the buildings which disfigure our lovely 
Cambridgeshire villages. Now I ask you, all of you — 
look at them. Do you think they are nice to 
look at ? ” 

Verdict was given that they were. “Talk of 
disfigurin’ the villages. What price you an’ your 
old van ? ” 

“ I and my van,’’ said the young man, good- 
tempered but contentious, “ are transitory dis- 
figurements. We are not rooted in the soil, as 
Rosemary Villas (however insecurely) are. Look at 
them again. Look at the larger house opposite 
them, with the gate-posts ...” 

“ Mr. Potts built Northcote, too,’’ he was informed. 
“ Didn’t yer, Mr. Potts ? That’s a good ’ouse, 
Northcote is.’’ 

“ And look at that row of cottages to the left ...” 

“ ’Old on, gov’ner. That’s where I live. What’s 
wrong, eh ? ” 

The young man’s words seemed to fail him. He 
took off his hat and ran his fingers through his dark 
hair, that was damp with the heat. 

“ They’re so ugly,” he said weakly. “ Don’t you 
see they’re ugly ? Oh, you ought to see it. They’re 
immoral.” 

Derisive shouts. “ Go on, Reverend. Sunday 


154 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


morning, ain’t it. Chuck ’im out, the fool. We’ve ’ad 
enough of your jaw. You let our ’omes alone, an’ 
we’ll let you alone. That’s fair an’ straight. What 
d’yer want, cornin’ an’ disturbin’ us on a Sunday, an’ 
abusin’ of our ’omes ? Chuck it, we tell yer, or you’ll 
wish yer ’ad. Eh, Mr. Potts ? ” 

The young man said, “ But I want to show you 
some designs of nicer houses. When you see them 
you must like them better.” He held up before them 
a large coloured drawing of the type of cottage that 
flourished in our Garden Cities. 

Clean and sharp a flint went through the deep 
tiled roof. Another followed ; a smart fusilade had 
begun in a second. The drawing was in tatters 
before it could be put out of the way. The shower 
of small stones continued after the drawing was 
removed. One of them cut the young man’s lip 
open ; others bruised his face and head and rained 
about his shoulders. The crowd had suddenly got 
rather annoyed. 

“’Ere, that’ll do,” said someone after a moment 
or two. “ Don’t kill the pore chap. We’ve learnt 
’im ’is lesson now, and don’t you forget it, young 
fellow. You can do what you like in Farley as long 
as you keep a civil tongue ; but when you begin 
abusin’ of better men than yourself, or their ’omes, 
we’ve got to learn you. See ? ” 

“ I see no sort of justification for your absolutely 
unwarrantable attack,” said the young man, very 
white and sick-looking, and mopping his lip. “ I 
made no remarks that could be considered in the 


THE WAYFARING MAN 


155 


least offensive. . . ." his voice trailed away ; he 
was feeling rather queer, having been struck about 
the head. 

“ Know better next time, won’t you, old man," 
they told him, now encouraging and sympathetic, 
and even compassionate. 

“ No," he said, which was probably true, and 
slipped sideways and fell out of his seat on to the 
road and lay still. 

Farley is full of human kindness. It resents 
insult, but has pity on the wounded wayfaring man, 
though a fool. It picked him up and supported his 
head and said, “ Give ’im air. Any first-aid men ’ere ? 
Any brandy about ? Call at the Cow and say as ’ow 
a bond fide ’as fainted. Cornin’ round, ’e is." 

The indignant Mr. Potts came to the fore in a truly 
Christian manner, and offered to take him into his 
own house. 

“ ’E wouldn’t like that, though, would ’e ?’’ someone 
said doubtfully, “ with the down ’e ’as on ’ouses. Make 
’im bilious, it might. Lor, ain’t ’e a cove ! One o’ 
them Socialists, I should say. Let’s take ’im in to 
the doctor’s." 

So they took him in to the doctor’s, and the doctor 
soon rescuscitated him. The doctor was told, “ The 
boys threw a few stones — not to ’urt ’im like — but 
just to learn ’im a lesson to keep a civil tongue. 
’E was abusin’ of our ’ouses, like a ravin’ lunatic. 
No one meant to ’urt ’im, you know, sir — but ’e 
put ’is ’ead in the way an’ got it, that’s ’ow it was." 

When the victim returned to consciousness he 


156 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


saw the doctor’s rather long, melancholy face above 
him. 

“ Coming round, are you ? That’s right.” The 
doctor’s voice was a sad bass ; he was a disillusioned 
and unhappy person of thirty or so. 

The young man sat up and said querulously, 
“ Asses. What did they want to do that for ? ” 

“What,” inquired the sad doctor, “did you want 
to insult their houses for ? ” 

“ Only for their good. Would you have everyone 
stand aside and do nothing to keep back this ghastly 
tide ? ” 

“ Live and let live,” said the doctor. “ People 
are happier with the things they like than with the 
things you think they ought to like. It’s all a 
question of personal taste. Who are you to impose 
yours ? ” 

“That’s a hopelessly immoral principle. Surely 
we ought all to be trying. ...” 

The doctor sighed, “Will you have some lunch ? ” 

“ Thanks ; I have had mine. I must get back to 
my van. I want to exhibit some furniture this 
afternoon.” 

“You are not satisfied with your experience of 
Farley yet, then? ” 

“ Certainly not. Quite dissatisfied. I shall per- 
severe.” 

“You are perverse, and utterly in the wrong. 
You are a meddler, I see. I won’t wish you luck. 
They surmise out there that you are one of them 
Socialists. That hypothesis, you will observe, covers 


THE WAYFARING MAN 


157 


a multitude of vagaries. Thank you, I make no 
charge for my mild services. It would be unjust, 
for I think you would not have requested them of 
your own will. Go to your van, and tell Farley 
ladies how criminal their chairs are. I will then 
doctor you again, and I will charge you for that, if 
you will. May I ask if you are making a long stay 
in Farley ? ” 

“ I shall move on to-morrow. I shall go through 
Saxford, Dorcote, and Little Leathmarch, and along 
the London road.” 

“ You would be happier selling boot-laces. There 
is a demand for boot-laces. I am in want of a boot- 
lace myself at this moment. But to you demand is 
nothing ; you turn a deaf ear and say, ‘ You are 
mistaken ; what you really want is a model cottage/ 
If you think to hypnotise Cambridgeshire into 
believing you, you have much disillusionment 
before you. Go your way : your genus must 
always buy more experience than it can rightly 
afford.” 

The young man went his way, to buy it, and the 
sad doctor went to his lunch. 

No ; Farley on the whole didn’t want queer- 
looking things like that. Besides, that did seem 
funny, hawkin’ on Sunday. What would the 
Minister say, or the Vicar either ? 

What the Vicar did say when he came along the 
village street before Catechism was, “You shouldn’t 
be selling on Sunday, my man ; you know that 
quite well.” 


158 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


The young man said, with regret, that he wasn’t 
selling. 

The Vicar said he was impertinent, and was 
breaking the law. 

The young man explained, at some length, that 
it was not a good law. 

The Vicar said, “ I see you are a character. Known 
better days, haven’t you ? ” 

The young man said he hadn’t, but that he hoped 
to in some future era. Before that era, one must 
clear away obstructionist laws. 

The Vicar said, till that era one must keep them. 
He added, “ I should have thought you had had 
enough of social reform this morning. By the way, 
I wish you would not provide counter attractions 
during service hours. Why not come inside, instead ? ’ 

The young man said civilly that he was not a 
church-goer. 

The Vicar said, “It is a pity so many of you 
Socialists should take that line. If you only knew 
it, you would find the kernel of your gospel inside 
the church doors. It is just the place where you 
do find it — and nowhere else that I know of. By 
the kernel I mean the good. You leave the bad 
outside.” 

The young man said, “ Exactly.” 

The Vicar said, “ What do you mean by 'exactly’ ? ” 

The young man started to explain, but three 
o’clock struck and the Vicar had to hurry away to 
Catechism. The young man was disappointed, 
for the Vicar had hit the right nail on the head, 


> 


THE WAYFARING MAN 


159 


and must be a person of intelligence and worth 
explaining to. His last words were, " If I hear of 
your hawking again to-day, I must give you in charge, 
you know.” 

After that the young man merely set out his 
solid benches, settles, stools, chairs and tables in the 
road to be looked at, and himself sat on one of them 
and worked at a half-made chair, and occasionally 
told the spectators how well he was doing it. He was, 
rather. He had been a blacksmith at one time, but 
it had been borne in upon him of late that his true 
vocation was that of a carpenter. 

Farley, during the odd moments it could spare 
from its other pursuits, watched him kindly. Touched 
in the head, of course, poor chap ; but seemed a good- 
natured fellow, and bore no malice for his treatment 
in the morning. And a bit of a wag in his way, they 
found ; could give an answer back, to the Vicar or 
any other man. “And him with a black eye and a 
cut lip, too, pore young chap,” said the Farley 
ladies. So they were quite nice to him on the whole, 
though that did seem queer, carpenterin’ in the 
road on a Sunday, and makin’ things, too, as folks 
wouldn’t have in their front parlours not if they 
was paid for it. But the pore young fellow was for 
the most part suffered gladly, even when he boasted 
about how good his furniture was — not in the best 
of taste, that, but then what would you have ? 
Hawkers will be hawkers, till the last day and after. 

When the vicar of Farley looked down the church 
from the pulpit that evening, he saw at the back 


160 VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 

the pale, square-jawed face of the young hawker 
frowning up at him with intent brows over solemn 
blue eyes. The Vicar felt rather pleased. He had, 
it seemed, sown a good seed in this young man ; any- 
how here he was, he who had said he was not a church- 
goer. He had come, perhaps, to find the kernel of 
his gospel inside the church doors. By the kernel, 
one means the good . . . one leaves the bad out- 
side . . . Exactly, said the young man. So here he 
was, having come along to find it. 

The Vicar, who had been preparing to preach on 
the discontent of the Israelites in the wilderness, 
from the text, “ And they murmured against him,” 
hastily altered his mind and gave out “ Love one 
another.” That he was able to do that showed 
him to be what the pedlar had thought him, a 
person of intelligence. Not every Vicar has such 
resource, and such independence of the written word. 

It was rather a good sermon. These golden ages, 
these millenniums, he said, that social reformers talk 
of, what are they but the coming of the kingdom of 
love ? And what is that but the simple obeying 
of the simplest of Christian precepts ? Simple, yes — 
easy, no. Those who think to fulfil even elementarily 
this simplest of precepts in their own strength will 
find it too mighty a task. Those who think to 
establish the reign of love without the aid of religion 
are like wayfaring men who are out of the highway. 
But there is a highway, and it shall be a way, and 
wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein. 
. . . (Apparently Farley had made up its mind, 


THE WAYFARING MAN 


161 


people and parson both, as to the intellectual 
equipment of the young man in the van ; he must 
have been getting a little tired of that.) There was 
quite a lot more of it, and it was all rather good 
(this Vicar’s sermons were), and decidedly the kernel 
of the pedlar’s gospel, or of any other right-minded 
gospel, including the Vicar’s. The point about 
kernels is that they are all very much alike. It is 
the nuts that hold them that differ so. The object 
is to have a nut that can be cracked by the average 
person. Or to find a way, if one is to talk, like the 
Vicar, of roads. Here you are, said the Vicar — 
here is your highway. Exactly the question, said 
the young man at the back ; is it our highway ? 
Will it not only take itself but carry us, the way- 
faring fools, to the goal ? Has it constraining power 
for that ? Will it carry us, like a horse ? Otherwise 
where is the good of the road running emptily to the 
goal, and the wayfaring fools lying in the ditch, 
asleep, left to themselves ? Prove the constraining 
power of your road, and we will all take it, we who 
want to arrive. For to arrive, thought the vigorous 
young man of purpose, scorning a classic saying, is 
better than to travel, however hopefully. 

The organ broke softly into “ Lead, kindly light.” 
Again the same opinion expressed, though the music 
was bad. Well, who knows but that it may be right ? 
Fair-minded persons suspend their judgments, give 
those they do not agree with the benefit of any 
doubt there may be. This carpenter always did so ; 
he was very fair-minded. 


M 


162 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


He came out of church and repaired to his van 
and held a carving class. The weak point of the 
carving class was that no one seemed to want to 
learn carving. But he had several people to look 
at him performing in solitary beauty, and that must 
have educated them a little, one hoped. 

The life of a reformer is a lonely life, often. He 
needs faith and hope and much philosophy, for his 
function is to reform and reform, and it remains 
often an intransitive verb, and he fights as one that 
beats the air. If he is young and of a good spirit 
and liked of life, he can continue cheerfully, and he 
is in his rights so long as he does that. But directly 
he sees bitterness approaching, he must lay down his 
arms and repair to the fair with wiser men ; his 
child’s game is spoilt. 

This young man, perhaps because his head ached 
with its morning’s battering, lay down that night 
against a rick beneath the stars with a little wave 
of bitterness lapping against the strong wall of his 
spirit. He had things to give, and no one would 
receive. He pointed the right way, and was received 
with jesting tolerance or a rain of stones. The good, 
the beautiful, the sane — he offered them, and they 
were spurned with contempt. “We want,” people 
told him, “ what we have got ; the bad, the ugly, 
the mad. We like it.” “ You shouldn’t like it,” 
said the young man. But if they just did, what 
then ? Was that the all-important thing, the last 
word, or wasn’t it ? . . . 

Chilly night winds crept and shivered round the 


THE WAYFARING MAN 163 

rick. The young man dived deeper into his sack, 
and slept. 

A grey pale morning, still full of the stars and a 
dying moon, saw the young man and the old horse 
and van taking the pale road in the twilight hush 
before the birds began, while still only the little 
night winds crept about, and the van wheels strangely 
stirred yesterday’s white dust. East and west and 
north and south flat lands spread in silence, grey 
and unlit and very quiet, and slow streams ran about 
them, sedged and willow-edged, and over all the wan 
moon drooped and died. If ghosts should dream, 
and tell their dreams in whispers . . . yes, it would 
probably be like that. Only the matter-of-fact 
young man of the van did not think that ghosts 
could dream. His eyes were on a distant spire — a 
pale, transparent grey point in the north-east. That 
much of a city caught the eye, dominating the plains 
about it ; that and a shorter, square tower, and some- 
thing with four pinnacles. To the thus indicated 
city the dusty road ran straight ; the van was 
passing a blurred milestone that said “ Cambridge 
10.” 

Somewhere to the east of the spire a rosy bar of 
cloud came and lay across green twilight. With it 
the hush of the ghosts’ dream was shivered and 
pierced as by a thousand silver bells, for the birds 
broke out, first singly, like horns to wake a sleeping 
world, then in swelling, rioting chorus, shouting 
madly for the sun. Some people think that the day is 
born for itself, without help from the birds. That is 


164 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


not easy to think if one is out on the roads at dawn, 
and sees the thing at work. The young man in the 
van saw how each fresh burst of summoning music 
called up a new wave of pure gold, till all the east 
was a golden lake that surged and surged and eddied 
over the pale sky, so that the faint spire stood dark 
and fine against light. That was only for a moment ; 
in the next the grey came down, and it was but a 
poor sunrise after all — a moment’s golden smile over 
a singing earth, then a plunge into blue clouds, and 
the early silver rain slanting over the willows and 
pelting the young man’s face and darkly spotting 
the soft dust. 

But after that it was a bright and shiny morning, 
and smelt of rained-on dust and wet fields, and the 
young man said, " Cluck, cluck ! Get on, Richard,” 
to his horse, and whistled a tune and munched a 
slice of bread and marmalade, and was happy. 

That morning he stopped in several villages and 
tried to sell chairs. It was no use getting on the 
stump, because it was a work day. It wasn’t much 
use trying to sell chairs either, particularly as it 
was washing-day. This young man had tried to 
learn all about the working-classes (as people insist 
on calling them — you can’t stop it), he had even 
married a wife partly with that end ; but he didn’t 
quite always remember washing-day, which was silly 
of him. You must not bother people on Mondays 
and Saturdays ; that seems a simple rule, but it is 
not always kept by the well-intentioned. It came 
back to the hawker of chairs very soon, though, 


THE WAYFARING MAN 165 

and he called himself a fool, and pushed on to 
Cambridge. 

Into Cambridge he came at noon, and found it a 
deserted August city, full of people and the sun. 
The Long Vacation term was over. But the young 
man put up his horse and van in an inn yard, and 
walked to St. Martin’s College, and crossed the court 
and called up at a daisied window-box for “ Jerry,” 
in the descending scale of two notes to which 
courts are used. 

A tranquil, attractive face appeared among the 
daisies. Jerry was never startled or surprised. He 
said, “ Hullo, Benjie. Come up and lunch. Brown 
bread and marmalade ; lots of it.” 

Benjie came up, in to a restful green room that 
adequately combined comfort and grace, so that it 
was obvious that the owner valued both very much. 
It was full of big, squashy cushions, artistically 
embroidered, and easy chairs, pleasantly enough 
shaped to satisfy even the young man of the van, 
and John drawings and Arthur Rackhams and 
Aubrey Beardsleys, and Japanese paintings and 
lacquer work ; the room, in short, of a young man 
who knew what he liked and was at pains to get it. 
At mild pains, that is ; for Jerry Bunter never 
bothered much ; things had a knack of dropping 
into his hands when he desired them. He was a rest- 
ful but untidy person. He was dressed in flannels 
and a blazer and canvas shoes and no socks, and was 
eating slices of brown bread and marmalade, with 
Blake’s illustrations of the Book of Job open at 


1 66 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


his elbow, and a towel over the back of his 
chair. 

He got out a plate and knife for Benjie, and cut him 
a large slice of bread, and passed him the marma- 
lade and then turned over a page of Job, remarking, 
“I’m going home to-morrow. Are you having a nice 
time ? " 

Benjie considered it. “ Yes,” he decided. “ Quite 
nice. In spite of a few contretemps. I am not much 
liked. I am considered rude, and in bad form, and 
a harchitect, and a sabbath-breaker, and a Socialist, 
and quite an ass." 

Jerry nodded, glancing at his brother’s scarred 
lip and discoloured brow. “ I expect so," he agreed. 
“ That’s just what you are, you know ; all those 
things, except the harchitect. More bread ? I’d 
come with you for a bit if you would take an off 
time for a few days. I should like the travelling, 
and I shouldn’t mind your selling chairs, but I 
should object to the preaching part. It looks as if 
it had been rather painful, too. What about going 
easy for a bit, and taking me with you, and travelling 
to the coast ? Then you could drop me at home, and 
go off by yourself again on the stump. It’s such 
lovely weather for being on the roads ; it does seem 
waste to mix it up with business." 

Benjie said, “ Don’t be a rotter. I’ve no days to 
waste ; life isn’t long enough. You haven’t grasped 
the point. Life is real, life is earnest, and so forth. 
And I’m going on with this job till it chucks 
me." 


THE WAYFARING MAN 


167 

Jerry looked at him tolerantly. Benjie and he 
were close friends. It was a pity they couldn't 
always see eye to eye. 

“ Converting people,” he murmured, turning it 
over as if it were a mathematical problem he couldn't 
solve. “ Well, I expect it's no good my trying to 
understand. ... It’s extraordinarily nice being up 
in the middle of August, Benjie. No one bothers one. 
I've done a lot of work, and I sleep down by the river, 
and this afternoon I’m going to bathe. I'm rather 
sorry I'm going home to-morrow.” 

“ What are they all about at home ? I gather from 
mother’s letters that they have been coming across 
those people at Merrilies End.” 

“Yes. They motored over to call, and to ask if 
you were at home or something. Father was shocked ; 
but mother says, ' poor children how should they 
know better ? ’ I want to meet them very much ; they 
sound attractive, and I want to get some drawings 
from them, if they’re still selling any. They're only 
ten miles from us, aren't they ? Father used to know 
their old cousin that lived there before, apparently 
— met him on benches and so on. So different, so 
respectable, mother says. They sound an acquisi- 
tion, these people. You like them, don't you ? ” 

“ No. I’ve no opinion of them. They encourage 
wastrels. They’re wastrels themselves, in fact. 
Rather pernicious, that type ; they do no end of 
harm.” 

“ Well, they seem to be attached to you, for some 
reason. They’ve asked us all to a garden-party, 


i68 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


apparently. Mother says one doesn’t know whom one 
mayn’t meet there — the sweep, you know, and ladies 
from music halls, and Roman Catholic priests, and 
all sorts of aliens, and wicked people whom no one 
calls on. That is the impression she has got of them ; 
I don’t know why, quite. Anyhow they must be 
rather nice, and I shall go and see them. . . . Shall 
you come home at all this summer ? ” 

“ I fancy not,” Benjie said, absently. “ Too 
busy.” 

He was silent, and forgot his bread and marmalade. 
Suddenly he broke out, violently, “ They ruin every- 
thing and everyone they touch, people like that. 
They’re — they’re pernicious.” 

Jerry opened his brown eyes a little. Benjie was 
seldom heated. He seemed quite excited now — 
like Cecil. Jerry thought excitement always super- 
fluous. 

“ Oh, I expect not,” he said, tranquilly. “Not 
more than the rest of the idle classes, are they ? ” 

Benjie said abruptly, “ Much more,” but did not 
explain further, and Jerry left the point of friction, 
as he always did, having been born a blessed peace- 
maker. 

“ Come and bathe at Grant Chester,” he said. 
“ We’ll get tea at the Orchard.” 

So they rowed up a slow, weedy river, between 
foaming billows of meadowsweet, and landed and 
bathed beneath a weir, and lay in a field, and had a 
large tea, with muffins, at the Orchard. Jerry was 
certainly a maker, or a finder, of peace. He made 


THE WAYFARING MAN 


169 


straight tracks for it, and its aroma hung always 
about him, resting his companions. Benjie, eating 
muffins beneath the apple tree, cool after his bathe, 
nearly forgot that he had a mission, a wife, a black 
eye, no opinion of wastrels, and no home he could 
approve of ; and he and Jerry talked about fishing 
and pictures and Cambridge people and nothing at 
all, till they landed in the dusk at the mill pool, and 
went their separate ways. 


CHAPTER IX 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 

“ Dear me, yes,” said Lady Lettice, answering a 
bishop’s wife, who was feeling shocked (they were at 
the Crevequers’ garden-party), “ all sorts and con- 
ditions, aren’t we ? Yes. Of course I bow to nearly 
everyone ; so important for Mervyn, you know. 
You don’t think it’s bowing in the house of Rimmon, 
do you ? I do hope it’s not. And of course one makes 
exceptions ; one must. Those dreadful Donovans, 
for instance ; yes, I looked the other way. I couldn’t 
face them. Mervyn did ; he bowed. He must, you 
know. Oh, quite beyond the pale, of course ; the 
man divorced his wife, and is tipsy every morning on 
the Barrow road. So revolting ; and dangerous for 
the car, too ; he reels right across the road in front of 
it. Anderson says, if there is an accident, the man 
will only have himself to blame. But most un- 
pleasant for all of us, of course. And the girls carry 
on with trainers and jockeys from Newmarket. 
Such hard complexions, haven’t they? And such a 
set of men they’ve got about them — just look ; no, 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 


171 

you’d better not. Some of them their brothers, and 
some not at all. So horsey, all of them. Really, 
the Crevequers should be warned ; how did they pick 
up with them ? But they’ve no discrimination, it 
seems. Oh, I assure you, the Donovans aren’t the 
worst ; there are some poor creatures with paint on 
their faces, and such accents ! Stage, obviously. Of 
course there are actors and actors, and one doesn't 
want to be a prude, and really now-a-days some 
London actors and actresses are so nearly that one 
can quite ask them, you know — but these poor things 
must be from the provinces. Hugh says they’re a 
touring company from Marie, doing some awful 
melodrama. Well, I suppose one should be demo- 
cratic, as Benjie always says. What a pity he’s not 
here ; he would enjoy himself among all these un- 
fortunate creatures. Quite submerged, aren’t they, 
and that’s what he likes. Poor boy, he is still going 
about in a cart ; such queer tastes he always had. 
One hoped when he parted from poor dear Louie (so 
unfortunate, that whole business, but one is thankful 
that they should give up trying to live together, 
though there they are, tied for life, and one doesn’t 
so far see any way out. I always told Benjie how 
it would be) — one hoped, you know, that he would 
settle down and become more like other people ; 
but no, oh he must go in a closed cart, and make 
chairs, and preach in the roads against people’s 
houses. So tactless. Who could be expected to 
stand it ; and so, of course, no one buys his chairs. 
Jerry says they throw stones at him instead, poor 


172 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


darling boy. But nothing will induce him to give 
it up and go into a sensible profession. It’s so absurd, 
he’s hardly making a penny, and I know he sends his 
private income to his wife, and says he earns enough 
to live on himself, and he has no ambition whatever, 
so there it is. Quite ridiculous, isn’t it ? But I wish 
he was here to-day ; he would be in his element. 
He loves improving people, and here is a whole 
garden full who look as if they needed it. There’s 
Lady Fenchurch cutting a Donovan girl ; poor girl, 
she shouldn’t have tried that on.” 

The bishop’s wife said she imagined many of the 
reputable guests were feeling so insulted that they 
would hardly come again. “Someone ought to tell 
these extraordinary young people that we country 
folk don’t like our prejudices to be rough-ridden like 
this. I feel sure they don’t mean to insult anyone, 
so they would be glad to know.” 

“ So distressing, isn’t it,” agreed Lady Lettice. 
“ The respectable people are being insulted by meet- 
ing the disreputable ones, and the disreputable ones 
by being cut by the respectable. Yes. So there we 
all are. But good for elections, I suppose. I really 
half believe those kind young creatures have that 
in their minds, for Mervyn was talking to them about 
the autumn election the other day, and how uncertain 
his seat is, because, as he says, he won't truckle to 
the undesirables. He won’t seek them out, you know ; 
he doesn’t think it dignified ; you know what 
Mervyn is. And those children said, ‘ We’ll have 
a garden-party, and ask everybody, undesirables and 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 


*73 


desirables and all — in fact, we don’t know which is 
which ; but if we ask everyone it will be safe, and 
then you can meet them all.’ And this, I suppose, 
is the result. Quite complete, isn’t it. And Mervyn 
really is unbending, I see, even to the undesirables. 
Look, he’s talking to the vet.” 

The bishop’s wife said, of course if the garden- 
party was a piece of election machinery, it explained 
itself. 

“ I didn’t know our engaging host and hostess 
were such good politicians. In fact, from their 
apparently rather democratic tastes, I should have 
expected their sympathies to be with the other 
side.” 

“ Oh, we're all democrats now, aren’t we ? Taking 
up the poor, you know, and all that. But to tell the 
truth I don’t fancy the Crevequers know very much 
about politics ; they were brought up mostly abroad, 
you see. Only they are quite ready to believe 
Mervyn, and so anxious for him to succeed. They’re 
rather fond of Benjie, too ; not that Benjie sees eye 
to eye with his father, poor boy, though I was pleased 
to hear him say not long ago that he didn't approve 
of Liberalism. Such a relief, because he used always 
to be such a dreadful Radical. But I don’t think 
he’s the least bit a Tory either, really ; I always tell 
him he ought to be more sympathetic to his father 
about politics. Dear me, there’s Cecil talking to the 
tax-collector. Now ought I to allow that ? They 
both look so animated, too. Such a little wretch — 
asks all kind of provoking questions about one’s house, 


174 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


and then assesses it ever so much too high. A 
dissenter, too, poor creature, and dreadfully upstart. 
Of course Cecil lets him talk. She always will argue 
with Dick, Tom, and Harry about all kinds of 
things she had better leave alone except with people 
of her own sort. So very rash ; one doesn’t know 
where that will end, does one? This dreadful 
democratic disease again. Cecil has it as badly 
as Benjie. And having no mother, you know . . . 
Now what can that little man be saying to 
her ? ” 

He was only telling her about Enlightened Congre- 
gationalists, and how they are quite different from 
Baptists, and how since the new minister had come 
he had put everything on a broader basis, and shown 
how a self-respecting man can be religious, too — 
but no creeds, of course, or superstitious beliefs, 
which self-respecting men don’t need, and if a man 
needs that to help him to live straight, etc. . . . 
All very true, and one had heard it before, but Cecil, 
though not interested in Enlightened Congregation- 
alism, was by way of being interested in tax-collectors 
and such, so she didn’t look as if she thought him 
trite, an impolite habit of hers with those Lady 
Lettice called people of her own sort. But she did 
try to lead him on from this mid- Victorian, Tenny- 
sonesque delving into the foundations of belief to 
something more practical and up-to-date. That 
is to say, she propounded her idea of an Arts, 
Crafts and Discussion Club in one of the 
neighbouring villages. Mainly discussion, but arts 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 


175 

and crafts to give solidity and keep members 
amused. 

" It’s by way of keeping people’s interest alive 
in things, till the Time comes,” she explained. 

“I see your point,” said the tax-collector, not 
asking what time she meant, because he preferred 
to seem to know, and because he was more interested 
in what he said to her than in what she said to him. 
But he didn’t score, for she got in next all the same. 

“ That is what my cousin is doing, you know. 
Going about the villages, waking up interest, and 
making people think. Preparing the ground for 
when it’s time to act. I said I’d try to do the same 
down here, and at my own home. When we have 
these clubs everywhere, things will begin to wake 
up a bit. Particularly women ought to join, because 
women are such slackers about using their minds; 
and when we get votes ... It will prepare the way 
for that, too, you see.” 

“ I see your point,” said the tax-collector, nodding 
intelligently. “ Though, as to that, I am what you 
might call a bit of a heretic, Miss Bunter. But we’ll 
let that slide ; I don’t want to start such a hot 
topic at a party — particularly as we men are badly 
outnumbered here, and might get the worst of 
it ! ” 

If Cecil’s eyes said “ Don’t be silly,” her lips at 
least refrained. She was certainly on her politest 
behaviour. She merely said, “ Well, will you help 
with the club ? ” and he looked rather pleased, and 
said he would by all means give her any assistance 


176 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


in his power. He thought she was rather pretty, 
though too pale, and talked too much and too fast, 
but not bad at listening, which talkers often are. 
Anyhow, she wasn’t a primroseyTory, like her uncle 
and aunt ; obviously she had sound Radical sym- 
pathies, though a bit of a crank, like that Socialist 
cousin of hers whom she seemed so full of ; probably 
she was in love with him, and all this Arts, Crafts and 
Discussion business, and keeping people’s interests 
alive, was, as she said, merely till the time came — 
the time when he could finally get rid of that poor 
wife of his, whom already, as everyone knew, he had 
deserted and left to herself. That is what happens, 
all poor men know, when the upper classes marry 
the daughters of the people. The tax-collector 
pulled his auburn moustache and smiled a little 
cynically, though quite pleasantly, as the young 
lady proceeded to propound the plans in which he 
was to help. 

A noise of fiddling suddenly began in a corner of 
the garden — a queer plaintive cracked ghost of a 
happy tune. One of the Crevequers’ undesirables 
had brought a fiddle with him, it seemed, or possibly 
had strayed into the garden uninvited to see if they 
had a use for music there. No other hosts would have 
had a use for such a musician as this — a vagabond 
foreign person, not clean. But the Crevequers, to 
whose mill all was grist, gave him coffee and sand- 
wiches and bade him play a tune. So he tuned up 
and played his broken-down dance music, that had 
been good music once, and the Crevequers, catching 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 


1 77 


each other by the hands, danced together on the 
lawn, and others of the very young laughed and 
followed suit, till there were a dozen couples jigging 
round. 

The tax-collector asked Miss Bunter if he might 
have the pleasure, and so they two were off together, 
for Cecil loved dancing and thought it rather fun to 
dance with the tax-collector instead of with some 
stupid squireling or parson’s son. That was the 
Idea ; mix us all up and prepare our minds — till 
the Time comes. And a few other people, who knew 
and cared nothing for the Idea, or the Time, thought 
it rather a sporting plan, and young gentlemen asked 
the ladies of the “ Trapped Alive ” company (poor 
creatures) to dance, and found them rather good 
fun ; and Miss Crevequer herself danced with the 
company’s comedian, and both seemed to be enjoy- 
ing it, and her brother took a stodgy little dentist’s 
daughter who was looking sad because no one 
had asked her, and the Miss Donovans had a 
great time with the horsey men who weren’t their 
brothers. 

Hugh Bunter had no intention of dancing ; he 
was looking on, as usual, and being unenergetic and 
placid and amused. But Betty Crevequer came up 
to him and said, “ Oh, d-do you mind asking that 
child Tommy’s just left to dance with you ? She’s 
frightfully keen, and Tommy has to go and dance 
with Miss Poppy Prince — she asked him just now — 
and the child looks so lonely all by herself. Please, 
will you? ” 

N 


178 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Hugh sighed, but went. He seldom refused to do 
what he was asked. So he led out the dentist’s 
stodgy daughter, and she kicked him and hurt him, 
and dragged on his arm and made him tired, and said 
it was a lovely party, and he smiled in his pleasant 
way and agreed that it was. It was a great thing 
to be as agreeable as Hugh, even if one wasn’t much 
interested in life. Why anyone should want to dance 
on a lawn to a cracked fiddle passed Hugh’s compre- 
hension. The Crevequer attitude towards life was 
interesting to him as a study. Hugh himself enjoyed 
things (placidly) when he saw that they were good. 
The rest he put aside, as irrelevant to him. He was 
fastidious. The Crevequers seemed to enjoy things 
irrespectively of any merit therein. They were 
omnivorous consumers of life ; not fastidious at all. 
They took and used all that came their way, and 
if nothing came their way they were somehow not 
at a loss even then. And they had a useful knack 
of making, with naive simplicity, large requests, and 
getting them granted. They seemed both to take and 
give with open hands. 

But they couldn’t make Jerry Bunter dance ; he 
loved them, but he shook his head and smiled his 
engaging, friendly smile at them, and retreated. He 
hated dancing, and he was shy of ladies. He couldn’t 
understand Cecil’s wanting to dance with the tax- 
collector, who was surely a bore, and his voice on a 
high pitch that jarred. But Cecil’s taste, good in 
some ways, was lacking in others — like Benjie’s. 
Jerry didn’t, as a rule, frequent garden parties ; he 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 


179 


had no use for social functions ; but he liked the 
Crevequers, and so he had come, in his untidy old 
flannels and floppy hat, which he had assumed under 
protest, since he seldom wore a hat at all. (In 
Cambridge you needn’t much, except when you are 
being polite, and that Jerry seldom was.) 

He had a quite happy time, lounging about the 
garden and meeting disreputable animals, and talk- 
ing to a Crevequer whenever opportunity offered. 
When he told Tommy he wanted to buy some of his 
drawings, Tommy promptly said, “ Stay the night,” 
and Jerry said, “ Thank you, I should like to,” and 
so that was arranged. Tommy added, “ At least, I 
hope there’s a room for you. A lot of people are 
staying here to-night ; I haven’t an idea how many, 
or who. They turn up, and we take them all in. 
We often don’t know who we’re having till bed- 
time ; then we count them. Some of them have 
beds in the garden ; they like it.” Jerry said he 
should prefer a bed in the garden ; he always had 
one at home in fine weather. Obviously these people 
kept open house for wastrels and others, and went 
on the beds-for-all-who-come principle. Servants 
do not always like this. 

The fiddler abruptly ended, and the dancers 
stopped. Jerry saw Hugh’s polite relief, and Cecil 
and the tax-collector going off together, talking still. 
Mr. Mervyn Bunter saw that, too, and cleared his 
throat and stepped forward as they passed, and said, 
“ Cecil, your aunt wants you.” He took no notice 
of the tax-collector, a notorious Liberal whom he 


180 VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 

disliked. Cecil nodded to her partner and said, " I 
shall see you again later, perhaps, and then we’ll 
settle more,” and went away with her uncle. The 
tax-collector heard Mr. Bunter say to her, in his 
discreet sotto voce, “ I think you have seen quite 
enough of that not very desirable person for this 
afternoon, my dear Cecil. Alia tempora alii mores, 
I know — but still, one can’t afford to altogether lose 
sight of the old played-out distinctions. Or is 
breeding quite a back number in these days of 
enlightenment ? ” 

The tax-collector, his face turning a dull red, saw 
the little wriggle of Cecil’s shoulders, which meant 
that her uncle was on her nerves ; it comforted his 
hurt, sensitive vanity a little, for she must like him, 
to wriggle like that. He tugged his moustache, 
grimly. He despised Mr. Bunter with a healthy, 
whole-hearted scorn, fed now by personal bitterness. 
The pompous fool. Splitting his infinitives, too. 
Any board school child would know better than 
that, breeding or not. And kow-towing to scamps 
like old Donovan, to pick a vote here and a vote there 
out of the gutter ; while those whose principles were 
known to be unalterable didn’t get so much as a nod. 
Hadn’t Miss Bunter herself said that this absurd 
garden party was got up partly to help her uncle 
at the next election ? The Crevequers, she had said, 
had offered to do all they could for Mr. Bunter, to 
make friends and use persuasion. Bribery and 
corruption, it patently was. All this offering of 
lodging and hospitality, and the pauperising of the 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 181 

poor that was notoriously ruining the countryside 
round Merrilies End — that was all going to be used 
to help Mr. Bunter to keep his ridiculous seat. 

Mr. Hancock suddenly felt the air of Merrilies 
End contaminated, stifling, as Benjamin Bunter 
had once felt it. He was an honest, intelligent, 
sensitive, prejudiced young man, badly hurt, and 
he said a stiff good-bye to his hostess and walked 
away. 

“ Oh, I do hope he enjoyed himself,” murmured 
Miss Crevequer, looking after him. “ He l-looks as 
if perhaps he hadn’t ... I wonder if he’d like a 
guinea-pig ? ” 

“ He’s only mourning because Cecil has been 
torn from him,” Hugh explained at her elbow. 
“ Those two have obviously discovered each other 
to be kindred souls. Most touching.” 

The tax-collector, walking home, came upon a 
closed cart drawn up on the grass beside the sea- 
road, and outside it a young man boiling a pot and 
stirring the contents with a long spoon, in his usual 
careful, interested, absorbed way. The tax-collector 
knew him by sight and pretended he didn’t. He 
had at least three reasons for wanting to annoy him, 
so he stopped to do so, and said, “ Good-evening.” 

The young man, like his family, thought the tax- 
collector pitched his voice unpleasantly high, but 
he didn’t really mind about such things himself. 
He said, “ Good evening. Will you have some supper ? 
It is just on ready. I shall give it three minutes and 
a half more. I have two clean plates.” 


182 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ Thanks, no,” said the tax collector. “ Just had 
my tea. Had it up there.” He jerked his head 
backwards. " At Merrilies End, or whatever they 
call the place.” 

Benjie nodded, and stirred. The smell of stew stole 
about, mixing with the little wind that breathed of 
sea and marsh. Across the wide flat lands to the 
west, sea lavender glowed under a pink sky. 

The tax-collector wondered what the young man 
stirring, with his tongue between his teeth and the 
firelight flickering over his downbent, absorbed face, 
thought of his father’s views on breeding, and 
elections, and infinitives, and not very desirable 
persons, and old played-out distinctions. And he 
wondered what the young man thought of his young 
cousin, who had swallowed his ideas whole and was 
preparing the ground for him and waiting for the 
Time. Also what the deserted wife thought of the 
young cousin. 

He said, “ A great political party they’re having 
over there. It’s a got-up thing, they all say.” 

“ Yes ? ” The young man was polite, but still 
absorbed in stirring. He could only attend to one 
thing at a time, always. Some minds are like that 
— tenacious, but too concentrated. The tax- 
collector was determined to divert his interest from 
the pot to the political party. 

“ Our member, you know, doesn’t .like to go out 
of his way to make friends with the undesirables 
among his constituents ; it’s lowering, and looks 
bad. So he gets his friends to collect them all 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 183 


together at a party, where he can do a little quiet 
kow-towing against the autumn election. He isn’t 
half safe in the saddle, you see. Rather a wily old 
customer. He and those young Crevequers are 
hatching a regular plot between them. They keep 
open house up there, to get on the soft side of the 
voter, I suppose. Well, I know that for a fact, for 
I had it from our worthy member’s niece an hour 
ago, and I presume she knows. They’re pauperising 
the countryside for miles around ; shameful it is, 
undermining economic life and moral character the 
way they’re doing. One hears they fill the house 
with vagabonds and beggars day and night. Every- 
one who asks gets, up there. It’s a disgrace. One 
can’t do any good with the people if there’s that 
working against one. You’ve discovered that 
yourself, I daresay, Mr. Bunter,” he added, for- 
getting himself. 

Mr. Bunter had. He had stopped stirring, and had 
been listening to the irritated young man with his 
attentive frown. The last words revealed a lack of 
taste in the speaker that annoyed him a good deal. 
He said, “You know my name, then ? ” and 
frowned more. 

The tax-collector coloured. He coloured easily ; 
he was a sensitive person. “ Perhaps I should beg 
your pardon for being so outspoken, Mr. Bunter. 
But facts are facts, and you’re not on your father’s 
side in politics, I know.’’ 

“ My father,” answered Benjie, unhooking his 
pot from its tripod and smelling it (it smelt good, 


184 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


though it had been stewing two minutes too long), 
" has nothing to do with all this pauperising that 
you speak of. I fail to see the connexion . . . 
Thanks, you needn’t explain. Good-night.” 

“ The connexion,” said the tax-collector, turning 
on his heel with a laugh, ” is simple. The Creve- 
quers persuade every voter they give their — their 
charity to, to vote Conservative. They’ve under- 
taken to help Mr. Bunter, you see. That’s all. 
Good-night.” 

Benjie, left alone in the wonderful evening, sat 
on his camp-stool on marshy turf and ate his supper. 
The pot had meat in it, and broth, and puff-balls, 
and plaintain leaves, and a lot of other things that 
Benjie believed to be edible. Anyhow he ate them. 
In the country a man need never starve, Benjie 
used to say. One can always fry grass, at the 
worst. 

Benjie to-night hardly noticed the various in- 
gredients of his meal, which usually interested him 
greatly. He was feeling angry and sick and ashamed. 
Sick of a distempered world, and ashamed that any- 
one could say his father was a wily old customer, 
and angry with the Crevequers, who were ruining 
the countryside. Benjie didn’t believe that that 
had much to do with the election ; it was merely 
the way they were made. That they did it partly 
with the childish, friendly, expressed desire to " get 
Mr. Bunter in ” was probably true, if people said 
so ; and that was another black mark against them. 
But anyhow there was enough to their charge ; 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 185 


Benjie had discovered that on his crusades in Suffolk. 
Indiscriminate giving, limitless, reckless hospitality, 
wanton encouragement of idlers — all that the 
self-respecting man, as typified in Benjie, most 
deplores. 

The evening came down on the marshes, and 
dropped dim green veils over sky and sea. The tide 
was coming in, drawn by little creeping waves that 
shivered and broke on smooth wet sands where the 
first stars glimmered. Benjie washed his pot and 
plate and cup and spoon in a starry rock chalice, 
and then went wading along the sea's edge, bare- 
limbed to knee and elbow, and the tide splashed 
up against him, and the dusky evening enfolded 
him. Then the moon swung up like a golden orange 
over the dim waters, and the dusk was flooded with 
glory, and from Benjie to the moon a bright road 
ran. 

Benjie, climbing over a jut of weedy rocks that 
broke the sea's curving line, came into a cove, and 
a hundred yards from him there waded knee-deep 
figures — three of them — sailing a large toy boat at 
the end of a string. 

Benjie stood for a moment to watch ; he too was 
interested in toy boats, and would have loved to have 
one to sail. But, though he knew that if he had been 
seen he would have been urgently bidden to “ C-come 
and help," he came no nearer. One can’t sail boats 
under the moon with people of whom one has no 
opinion. Benjie cynically noted that the third 
figure was his younger brother’s. 


i86 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


He climbed again over the slimy jut of rocks, and 
splashed back along the tide's edge to where his 
dying fire above the sea road flickered like a beacon 
beside the dark van, his beloved home and workshop. 
He climbed up to it, and settled down to his work ; 
he was making an ash-wood table. 

He was getting to love this wandering life of his. 
On the whole, he thought Louie had been right in 
insisting that they should conduct their lives apart. 
Louie didn’t love a wandering life. She was safely 
settled in Wattles with her people — happier, no 
doubt, than she could ever have been with Benjie. 
Benjie went to see her sometimes, and her decision 
was always the same. " No, Ben, we’re best apart. 
You’re one class, as it were, and I’m another, and 
we’ll never get beyond that. If you’d been born 
what you like to pretend you are, that would have 
been different — but you weren’t, and that’s all 
about it, and I can’t bring myself to forget the 
difference, even if you could.” 

This intrusion of the class question was, of course, 
trying, hardly delicate, horribly retrograde. Benjie 
had hoped that Louie had got beyond that, and had 
learnt to measure class by his own standard — that 
of work. But she hadn’t, partly through her own 
fault, partly through his and his family’s, and there 
it remained. And Benjie had come to believe it to 
be for the best. He could, he thought, do better 
work unattached, unrooted. People should marry, 
of course ; but perhaps not all people. And if 
people, having married, found they had been 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 187 

ill-judged in so doing, they should accept the dis- 
covery like reasonable beings, face it, and undo the 
tangle in a reasonable way, as he and Louie had 
done. 

The night waves whispered below the sea road, 
creeping higher. About midnight came footsteps 
on the road, and voices talking, the one soft, tranquil, 
leisurely, the other mournfully stammering. The 
one said, “ They’d probably rather stay down here, 
whoever they are. It looks comfortable.” The 
other, “ But we c-can’t leave them so near without 
asking them in. Besides, they may be nice to know. 
Van people usually are. Gipsies, probably. Perhaps 
they'll come to breakfast, anyhow . . . Oh, good 
evening.” 

“ But it’s Benjie’s old cart,” said Jerry, without 
surprise, as usual. “ I didn’t know he was about 
here. He won’t come in, you know.” 

Benjie, silhouetted against the lantern-lit in- 
terior, looked out at them through his open door, 
and let his plane rest. 

“ Good evening. Hullo, Jerry. Do you want to 
come and sleep here ? ” 

“ No, thank you. I’m sleeping at Merrilies End. 
Why do you work so late ? Do you want more books? 
How long are you staying round here ? ” 

Tommy Crevequer came up to the lit door and 
said, " I w-wish you’d come and stay with us. 
Won’t you ? ” 

Benjie regarded him gravely. 

“ Thank you, I’m afraid I can’t.” 


i88 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ Well, come to breakfast to-morrow. At — at 
breakfast time, you know.” 

“ Thank you,” said Benjie. “ But I shall be starting 
off early to-morrow — before breakfast time.” 

“ But come as early as you like. Come now ; 
come at six — five — half-past three — any time.” 

“ Thank you very much. I am sorry, but I am 
too busy.” 

Tommy said no more. The lantern-light, gleaming 
on his face, showed it a little puzzled, like a child’s 
who would not like to think he has been snubbed, 
but isn’t quite sure. 

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “Well, 
c-come and see us any time you can. ... I must 
go back now, I think, to Betty.” 

“ I’ll come soon,” said Jerry, and lay down on the 
turf by the red embers and stared at the big moon. 

“Why are you so stupid, Benjie?” he enquired 
presently. 

Benjie, also lying by the embers, returned, “ Why 
should I go and stay with people when I don’t want 
to ? What do you suppose my cart is for, if I prefer 
a house ? ” 

“ I didn’t want you to come to the house,” said 
Jerry. “ I knew you wouldn’t, of course. It’s your 
manner I meant.” 

“ Why should I pretend to like people when I 
don’t ? ” 

“ But it’s stupid of you not to like them. They’ve 
given me a white guinea-pig with black spots. 
They’re nice.” 


BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 189 

“ Well, you see,” said Benjie, “ I don’t consider 
that they are. They’re behaving very stupidly, and 
spoiling the whole neighbourhood — besides bringing 
discredit on father by bribery and corruption. You 
may ignore all that if you like and take guinea-pigs ; 
I can’t. They offered me one ; but they’re not the 
kind of people I want to have anything to do with. 
I don’t think they have any claim to exist.” 

Jerry said, “ Oh, well, probably not,” sleepily, 
and added presently, “ Even their garden-party was 
nice, and beautifully disreputable. And you hurt 
Tommy’s feelings just now. I’m going back to them 
now, to make up for your rudeness.” He sat up, 
and breathed in the sighing sea winds. 

“ Cecil wants to come and travel in the cart, too,” 
he said. 

“ Stupid of her. She wouldn’t be let.” 

“ No, I suppose not. That’s partly why she wants 
to come. I think her idea is to join you for a bit 
on her way back to Cambridge, and not mention it 
till afterwards. Shall I tell her you’re about here ? 
Do you want her, or would she be in the way ? She's 
keen to help with your job, you know ; thinks she 
can be more use with women than you, and make 
them want tables and votes and things. Cecil’s 
extraordinarily energetic . ’ ’ 

" Well, I don’t think she’d better come,” said 
Benjie, having considered. “It’s the sort of thing 
people who aren’t quite sane don’t like. And rows 
are rather boring.” 

" Oh, I don’t think Cecil minds them. . . . Shall 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


190 

you be gone in the morning when I come and bathe ? 
Which way are you going on ? ” 

" South, along the shore. The Aldenham road. 
. . . You can tell Cecil, if ever she wants to com- 
municate with me, to ask Louie where I am. I send 
her picture postcards. Good-night.” 


CHAPTER X 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 

One understands that it is rather outrt to travel 
alone with a cousin of the opposite sex in a van, 
even with the most fraternal feelings. Whoever 
lays down the law on these and similar principles of 
conduct would appear to have laid that one quite 
firmly. Of course the sensible plan is tranquilly to 
ignore the law, if one wishes to do so ; the best 
people always do that with laws. Cecil Bunter 
thought she was doing that. As a matter of fact 
she wasn’t ignoring it at all, but taking it very 
much into account, and defying it because it was a law, 
and she wished to be the sort of person who ignores 
foolish laws. Of course one can’t be that by thinking 
about it ; thinking puts an end to ignoring, and 
introduces conscious defiance. Cecil was a Bohe- 
mian, like most other things, on principle ; she 
would take off her hat in the road less because she 
was tired of it than because she wanted to be the 
sort of person who walks without a hat ; she would 
call on undergraduates in their rooms as much 
191 


192 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


because it was the improper thing to do as because 
she wanted to see them. Plenty of people are rather 
like that at twenty ; there is hope for them then, 
though if they haven’t purified themselves of the 
taint ten years later, they are probably lost 
eternally. 

Anyhow, Cecil, having discovered where Benjie 
was from Louie (he had just sent Louie a picture 
postcard of Hollesley market-place) joined him at 
the end of September, maintaining some reserve on 
the subject of her plans towards her aunt Lettice 
(an easy job, that ; one couldn’t anyhow say much 
to Lady Lettice, because there wasn’t room). As 
a matter of fact it was quite simple ; Cecil went to 
stay with a friend, and the length of her visit was 
indefinite. It was a short one, as it happened ; it 
would be more fun with Benjie in the cart, and more 
useful too. One must keep stirring, and not let the 
time slip by without striking blows for the Idea. 
The Idea was still the Beautifying of the Home, 
with a little Fabianism thrown in. 

Benjie didn’t mind Cecil coming, if she wanted to. 
He had a genuine contempt for social conventions 
himself, and knew that she had. It was probably 
a good plan for sensible people like them to set an 
example of freedom. Besides, Cecil and he were 
practically brother and sister. 

He mentioned on his postcards to Louie that 
Cecil was with him ; that would interest her, 
as she had always admired Miss Cecil for her 
cleverness. 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 193 

Cecil really was rather clever : she could cook 
quite nicely, and in a cart one can afford to do 
cooking and washing-up without being thought 
domestic. 

She said, If I did this sort of thing anywhere else, 
I should get called a nice, sensible, housewifely girl. 
I shouldn’t dare.” 

Benjie didn’t see that. “ A good thing to be, I 
should have thought. I like to be a nice sensible 
housewifely man. I am, you know. I always do 
my own chores.” 

Cecil said a man could afford to ; no one was 
trying to press men back into the kitchen. 

Benjie said kitchens were all right, and very 
interesting. Cecil didn’t think they were, and that 
was all about it. But it was quite fun cooking 
puff-balls and potatoes in the tripod pot. They 
ate them in the van, because the late September 
evenings were growing chilly. As they ate, they 
discussed their programme for next day. Cecil was 
to tackle the women of Ottley about some repro- 
ductions of drawings that Benjie had bought and 
was trying to sell for a song. Votes might be 
allowed to edge in somewhere if convenient, but one 
must go warily, because of course them suffrage 
ladies, poor things, aren’t quite right in the head, 
and who shall regard them ? Benjie meanwhile was 
to do some orating in the market-place and show 
chairs. 

“ Awfully nice, Benjie,” said Cecil of the chairs. 
“ Of course no one will want them.” 


o 


i 9 4 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


That annoyed Benjie ; Cecil was always showing 
that she wasn’t at heart a demorcat, but only in 
mind. The scornful aristocrat in her was always 
jumping out. 

“ If you think in that way about people,” he said, 
“ I can’t think how you can work among them at all. 
It must seem so unprofitable.” 

“ I don’t think in that way,” said Cecil truly. 
She only felt in that way, and didn’t know that she 
did even that. She didn’t like Benjie to be ruffled 
with her, and said, cross in her turn, “You can only 
tell by experience what people will like. Yours 
seems to have been rather one-sided so far.” 

Benjie said nothing, thinking she was ungenerous, 
and that it was a pity she had come. But the next 
moment she said, “ I'm a beast, Benjie. I’m sorry 
I said that. Of course it’s only a question of time 
and patience. I expect they’ll be clamouring for 
the chairs to-morrow.” 

“ Or next year, or ten years hence,” said Benjie. 
“ I don’t particularly mind when. Things must take 
time of course.” 

They had finished supper now, and were sitting 
in the van’s open doorway, with dangling legs, 
watching the big moon rise behind a squat church 
tower. Cecil thought it was ripping to be there with 
Benjie, and that the night was glorious. She was 
half consciously groping after the mot juste for the 
moonlit hazy night, without which she would prefer 
not to allude to it at all. Cecil was like that. It 
is yet another disease of the early twenties. 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 195 

Benjie said, " What a nice night.” He often said 
the obvious thing ; he was quite a stupid boy in 
some ways, Cecil knew. 

Nine o’clock tolled from the squat tower. 

“ I suppose it’s slack of us not to be washing up,” 
said Cecil. 

“ I will,” said Benjie. “ I expect you’d better go 
up to the inn about now. They probably object to 
late hours, and we’ve got to make a good impres- 
sion on the village.” Cecil was going to sleep at the 
inn. It was rather dull, but more correct. 

The Marie tax-collector, who was staying with his 
aunt near Ottley, happened to pass by the van at 
this moment on his way to a whist-drive (he would 
be late for it, of course). He saw them, and put up 
his eyebrows, and said “ Good-night.” 

Cecil said “ Oh, what are you here for ? ” but he 
didn’t stop at all. “ He’s rather fun,” Cecil told 
Benjie. “ Awfully crude and obvious, but interest- 
ing. And really a good man, and might help us.” 
(They meant a Socialist by a good man.) “ But 
he seemed grumpy to-night. Oh, I expect he’s 
shocked — thinks us odd, you know.” That was 
on the whole a matter for self-congratulation. It is 
comparatively dull being rather shocking if no one 
is shocked. 

“ Cheek if he does,” said Benjie. " He’s no right 
to think about us at all. Besides, we’re not odd . . . 
Come on. I’ll come up with you to the inn.” 

The next morning the van took up a central 
position in Church Street, and Benjie and Cecil did 


196 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


some house to house visiting. Cecil showed some 
reproductions of John drawings to the ladies of the 
houses. 

“ Aren’t they good ? ” she said, confiding in the 
sympathy of a lady who was ironing clothes (it was 
a Tuesday). “ Look at the lines of that woman’s 
dress ... do you see ? ” 

The lady, who privately thought her Sidney did 
things better than that at his drawing-class, said, 
“ Fancy that, now.” 

“ We’re letting them go for sixpence each,” Cecil 
explained, " because we want people to have them.” 

That, of course, is usually the reason why things 
are let to go cheap. Besides, was it cheap ? The 
lady wasn’t sure. 

" I won’t trouble you, miss,” she said. “We’ve lots 
of pictures, look.” They had. There was His Majesty 
King Edward the Seventh, with a number of his rela- 
tives, and several beautiful pictures from Christmas 
numbers, and numerous photographs of the 
family. 

Cecil said, “ Don’t you see the difference ? Don’t 
you want to have good things ? I wish you’d begin 
and try and care about it . . . Do.” 

It was a pity Cecil was rude, like that. She really 
wasn’t cut out for a propagandist, who should have 
tact. 

The lady said, “ Thank you, I won’t trouble 
you ... I must get on with my ironing, if you’ll 
excuse me.” 

Cecil sighed and went. It was a pity it was 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 197 

ironing morning. John drawings hadn’t a fair 
chance. But she sold a few. It is marvellous 
what you can sell if you try, and aren’t daunted by 
ironing. Ironing may even be a help, as one must 
get rid of intruders at all costs, even sixpence and 
a queer picture. 

She had most luck at a dress-maker’s. For the 
dress-maker, herself not interested (or rather, not 
given a chance to show herself so), had a nephew 
staying with her. The nephew was sitting in the 
parlour, reading the Morning Leader. He saw her 
coming, before she knocked. 

" A cool one,” he reflected. “ Perhaps she wants 
to square me. I bet no one knows of this little 
adventure of hers.” 

He opened the door to her. She said, “ Oh, how 
do you do ? Are you staying here ? I’m selling 
pictures. Will you look at them ? ” 

He looked at her instead, while she spread them on 
his aunt’s table, by his aunt’s Bible. Rather borne 
of his aunt to have a Bible lying on her parlour table, 
as if it were something one set store by, not just a set 
of interesting old fables, as he and Miss Bunter, and 
even the enlightened Congregationalist minister at 
Marie, knew it to be. He hoped Miss Bunter wouldn’t 
think he had part or lot in that Bible. 

He supposed the drawings were clever, if she said 
so. She was intelligent, if immoral. But he wasn’t 
much interested. She expounded to him the Idea, 
because he would understand. 

“To educate people’s taste . . . give them good 


198 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


things to look at . . . real Art, not trash . . . I’ve left 
some at people’s houses for them to look at all day ; 
it takes time to see how good they are. I shall 
call again in the evening and see if they’ll keep 
them.” 

“ Ah, on appro.,” said Mr. Hancock. " That’s 
sound business. . . . Well, I’ll take some, by all 
means.” He wished to show her that he too was a 
person of taste. Though he disapproved of her he 
rather admired her style ; it was recherche and out of 
the common way, and she was too good for that 
stuck-up cousin of hers who had deserted his wife. 
But he meant to show her what he thought of her 
goings-on ; his manner had what books describe as 
a scarcely-veiled insolence. 

He bought six pictures. “ It’s not a bit of use 
your seeing my aunt,” he said. “ She’s busy, and 
she wouldn’t admire these clever drawings either, 
dear old soul. That’s what she likes.” He indi- 
cated the pictures on the walls. “ A trial, aren’t 
they ? It isn’t a bit of use, Miss Bunter, your trying 
to raise the taste of the masses in Art. It needs a 
bigger haul up than you can give it.” 

Cecil argued about that for a bit. When she had 
done she found that he was looking at her rather 
queerly. She paused for him to answer her argu- 
ments. 

“ People are rather particular in Ottley,” was the 
way he answered her. “ Do you find you’re well 
received, if I may ask ? ” 

“ Well received ? Oh, people always like a talk, I 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 199 

think/’ Cecil didn’t think the tax-collector’s manner 
had improved since last she met him. 

“ Ah. Possibly they aren’t aware yet of your cir- 
cumstances. I have purposely not mentioned them, 
not even to my aunt, not wanting to make mischief 
or spread scandal. But things leak out, Miss 
Bunter.” 

Cecil disliked his tone very much. It was cer- 
tainly insolent. She objected to the expression of 
his eyes. They were insulting, and he was being 
vulgar. It is one thing to shock the respectable as 
they loom in a vague, indeterminate background, 
and quite another to be confronted with one of them 
in person. To shock people is to give them rights ; 
rights to be vulgar, or indecent, or angry, or terrible 
in some other way. Cecil shook a little as she col- 
lected her drawings. She paused a moment at the 
door to compose herself, before saying, (and her 
voice had a little tremor of anger in it,) “There is 
nothing that I could in the least object to your 
mentioning about me. I am sorry I don’t in the 
least understand you ... Yes, I do. I imagine 
what you mean is that you think it queer of me to be 
travelling about like this, and that other people will 
think so too ; and be shocked. I daresay you’re 
right. People who are vulgar enough not to appre- 
ciate good art are usually vulgar enough to be 
shocked. You can’t suppose that I should have the 
least objection to their being shocked — or you 
either. Good-morning.” 

On thinking it over afterwards Cecil was not 


200 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


satisfied with that speech. She should have more 
definitely laid down her principles — flung them in his 
face. But at the time it seemed not possible to lay 
down any principle or raise any discussion. Principles 
crumpled up when one was being looked at like 
that. 

“ Middle-class vulgarity jumped out at me like a 
wild beast,” she wrote in a letter to a college friend. 
(College friends, being sympathetic, are told things ; 
they are not shocked ; they are intelligent and on 
the right side, not like people at home ; everyone 
knows that.) “ It was rather ugly . . . More and 
more one feels the Middle Classes are an unexplored 
territory — the funny standards they have, the odd, 
upside down ways of judging things, the wax flowers 
on the chimney-piece and the Bible on the table — 
and standing among them a vulgar, shocked creature 
with a dreadful smile . . . There must be some way 
of putting this to rights. The Poor are easier ; one 
understands them. They haven't got that dreadful 
respectability — or when thay have it's only a thin 
wall they've built round them to defend them ; it 
doesn’t go through and through, as with the M.C. . . . 
I didn't do any more that day till the evening ; I 
wanted Benjie horribly, so I stayed by him while he 
talked to people. Benjie is a good antidote after a 
dose of M.C. He is so splendidly sane. I suppose 
that’s what’s wrong. The M.C. aren’t sane — not 
essential, not free from cant. How queer it must be 
to be of them, born and brought up among them. 
What would one be, I wonder ? People like you and 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 201 


me and Benjie, I mean. I suppose we should break 
out and go to the bad, as they call it, and fall into 
the abyss. Well, Td rather be in the abyss than up 
on the levels with them . . .” A page more of this, 
leading on to ... “ There are white nights of 
moony haze, and the villages are glorified into a 
magic mystery, and cant and vulgarity and middle- 
classdom fall away. Even the church tower stops 
being a symbol of repression and stupid insincerity, 
and becomes a centre of graciousness and romance, 
dark and square against silver moonlight. I could 
almost agree then with my Socialist parson cousin, Bob 
Traherne, who says that the Church should be the 
centre of social life. But one knows that is funda- 
mentally impossible really : we’ve travelled too far 
for that, and couldn’t get back even if we wanted to. 
Only I do feel, if any form of religion, it must be 
the Church ; it is so awfully picturesque. Some 
people are Enlightened Congregationalists. That 
seems to me appalling. To be a Congregationalist 
is ugly, and to be enlightened is worse. Because 
they aren’t enlightened, really ; they are still 
respectable and shocked. They only think they’re 
enlightened : like Mrs. Venables. The Church doesn’t 
think so : it doesn’t pretend, and it’s got the splendid 
historical side at its back ” — (that wasn't good : 
Cecil crossed out “ at its back.”) “ But by day- 
light one knows one can’t traffic with any of the 
Churches — they are all enemies really. My cousin 
Bob sends me the Church Socialist Quarterly. I 
believe they think they can capture the Movement. 


202 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Of course that's rubbish ; they can’t do more than 
hamper it a little. Socialism must include so much 
that the Church could never allow. The Church 
stands up for respectability. So the Church is not 
for me. Oh, I'm glad I’m not respectable, aren’t 
you ? What an awful thing to be. If one were, no 
van, no puff-balls stewed in the pot beneath the 
white moon, no nothing . . . Term begins on the 
nth, doesn’t it ? I’ve got a few books with me, and 
am working a little, in spare moments. There aren’t 
many, what with the Campaign, and cooking, and 
washing up. Benjie is jolly good at domestic 
things — better than I am, but then he’s had more 
practice. Besides, he can afford to be domestic ; 
no one is trying to press men back into the kitchen.” 
(Pity to waste one’s rather good remarks by only 
making them to one person-.) “ It’s all being 
frightfully jolly : I don’t feel I can ever settle down 
beneath a roof again. When I come up I can tell 
you lots more about it, that I can’t write. You 
see, it’s an entirely new experience for me, and I 
don’t feel I’ve altogether caught on to all of it yet — 
there’s so much. Benjie himself is a rather big 
person to be with — he is so awfully selfless, and 
eaten up by ideas. And at the same time so funny 
and simple, and awfully clever with his brain and 
hands, but not specially in his talk ; in fact at times 
he’s fairly crude, and I feel years older. And he’s so 
busy planning things and thinking them out that he 
doesn’t quite always listen to what I say — but one 
doesn’t want to be listened to, as long as one can 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 203 


express oneself for one's own edification . . .” 
And so on ; quite a lot more. Probably the friend 
read it all. She was twenty-one. She admired 
Cecil a good deal, and quite held with her views on 
Church and State, and Life and Art ; but she 
smiled at the last remark quoted, which was very like 
Cecil indeed, and not true. 

Ten days later they met at college. Cecil was very 
thin and brown ; the effect of puff-balls and the sun. 
They had cocoa and cakes at ten o’clock in Cecil’s 
room, several of them, but Cecil didn’t mention the 
van till the others had gone. Till then they talked 
about people, and games, and work, and holidays, 
and all the things one always does talk about on the 
first night of term. But from 10.30 onwards, 
Audrey (Cecil’s friend) heard a great deal about the 
van. It was obvious that it was the one thing that 
was really interesting. Audrey was rather a nice 
girl — clever and sensible, and fairly level-headed, 
and, in her more reticent and tranquil way, as keen 
as Cecil on the things Cecil was keen on. She would 
certainly think it quite silly not to travel in a van 
with anyone you like. College friendships are good 
things ; there are perhaps no others quite like them ; 
they touch the essentials of being — aren’t satisfied, 
indeed, with less. For if a person doesn’t see eye 
to eye with you in a few of the most important 
things, why make friends ? There are others all 
round who do. It is not as in later life, when 
environment and accident must enforce personal 
relations. 


204 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Cecil to-night was in a mood of radiant exal- 
tation, triumphantly content, with the touch of the 
sun and the feel of the clean winds still on her face. 
She didn’t put her cups and plates outside the door 
to be washed, but remembered that it is rather rotten 
not to wash up one’s own things and she was going 
to do that in future. But before doing so she took 
off her dress and sat among the cushions by the 
fire, and began to brush her hair and talk. Audrey 
lay back in a big chair and listened. She was 
amused by Cecil in this radiant, conquering mood. 

“It’s the only right life,’’ said Cecil. “ Why do 
we ever lead any other ? We’re going to do it again. 
Benjie’s such a ripping person to be with. One can't 
not feel keen and hopeful when one’s with him. 
Some day I want you to come, old thing. You and 
Benjie would get on. In a way you’re rather alike. 
I’m not ; I fizz and explode . . . D’you know, I feel 
I’ve learnt a bit of the Secret.” (The Secret of the 
universe, she meant, of course ; that is another 
thing about college friends, they know what you 
mean — possibly because you have rather often said 
it before, and so" have they.) “ Like when you have 
gas, you know ; you learn the Secret then, but you 
forget it when you come round. I’ve learnt it 
differently now, and I shan’t forget. It’s just big 
spaces and clean winds, and the sun and the mist, 
and more than that ...” 

The friend sleepily quoted one of the more hack- 
neyed lines of Meredith’s poems. “ That’s an old 
story, surely.” 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 205 

“ Of course it is. As old as the hills. That doesn’t 
matter ; I’ve learnt it new. I thought I’d learnt it 
before, but I hadn’t. You have to go there first. 
Audrey, I feel as if I’d been at the back of the North 
Wind. Diamond learnt the Secret, and I have 
too. After that, what else can matter? Little 
things simply don’t count ; how can they ? Triposes 
— hockey — people — everything — they’re like the 
outside dream revolving round the real thing. 
D’you see ? ” 

“No,” said Audrey. 

“ Why not, stupid ? ” 

“ Because the secret of the world ought to make 
the whole world more real, not less. D’you see ? ” 

“ No, of course I don’t. I don’t agree. It doesn’t 
make all the little funny accidents more real — it just 
puts them in their place, in the shadow-border. It 
all becomes a Unity — see ? I could write an article 
for the Monist about it.” 

“ Does it really help to clear things up — link them 
together ? ” Audrey wondered. 

“ Course it does.” Cecil yawned a little, tired, 
though not of her own profundity, and ate a mixed 
biscuit with sugar on the top. 

“ Audrey, old dear.” 

“ M-m . . . Give me a biscuit.” 

“ Catch, then ... I say, how awfully new the 
term is.” 

“ Not really very. It’s ten minutes past eleven.” 

“ Eight whole weeks. What a lot ! I want the 
holidays. I do. I’m not interested in the term.” 


206 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Audrey lifted her brows very high. “ Fancy ! ” 
Then she became grave suddenly. " You’re being a 
stupid baby, you and your secret and your shadow- 
border. I suppose Fm in your shadow-border, am I ? 
Cheek, putting me there. We’re not a shadow-border, 
any of us. Everything’s frightfully real — hockey and 
Fabian meetings, and work, and even Trips — though 
you can put those in any border you like, for me. 
Pull yourself together, my child, and don’t let your 
nice holiday spoil you for daily task . . . Cecil , 
that hurt . ’ ’ Mixed biscuits, flung with force, do hurt . 

“ Now I’m going to bed,” said Audrey. “ And 
don’t let your mind grow narrow, my dear.” 

“ ’Tisn’t narrow. Only the van is big, and fills 
it up ... I say, Audrey.” 

" What now ? ” 

“ Will you come with me one day to Wattles and 
see Louie ? ” 

“ Very well. Would Louie like it ? ” 

“ Course she would. And I want to tell her all 
about the van. I do want to keep up with Louie. 
At present, you see, it’s been a bit of a failure, and 
things can’t stop at that. I want to help her to 
understand it all — herself and Benjie, and how they 
can be friends in spite of everything. Louie, you 
know, interests me enormously. It was so sur- 
prising the way she seemed suddenly to wake up and 
grasp the situation.” 

“ I don’t know why surprising. She would have 
been a fool not to, rather.” 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 207 

“ Oh, we should, of course. But she’s different, 
you don’t expect people like that to see things, 
quite.” 

“You shouldn’t draw lines, Cecil. You’re being 
a snob.” 

“ I’m not. I never draw lines. But — oh, you 
know education does make a difference. And so I 
want to help her to see more and more, now that she’s 
seen so much. She’s seen quite wonderfully much 
already.” 

“ I see. You’re tackling the problem a la Henry 
James. His people always sit up so late at night 
elucidating each other, don’t they ? It seems to be 
a complaint of midnight . . . What do you want to 
help her to see, exactly ? ” 

Cecil’s arm described a parabola. “ Everything. 
Herself. Benjie. Me. The situation. How to 
take a little and leave the rest, and be happy and 
great ... In fact, the Secret.” 

“ Oh ! I see. Funny young one. Good-night.” 

Some of Cecil’s friends spoilt her. Others sat 
upon her. Audrey Travers did now one now the 
other. 

The first time Cecil went over to Wattles she went 
alone. She found Louie being domestic (peeling 
potatoes). Mrs. Robinson informed Cecil, whom she 
greeted without ardour, that Louie was “ behind,” 
and busy. “ And, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t know 
as I want her disturbed.” 

Mrs. Robinson had hostile, faded eyes, in a weak 
face. Cecil supposed that the Robinsons were angry 


208 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


with Benjie, with the bad logic of the uneducated. 
What mists of misunderstanding there probably were 
to clear away ! Oh, to give them the clarity of perfect 
truth which admits of no anger. Sorry one may be 
for life and its clash of incompatibilities — but angry, 
no. One accepts. 

“ She won’t mind seeing me,” said Cecil. “ I’ll go 
through, shall I ? ” A rhetorical question, delivered 
as she passed through the back door. 

There, in the little yard, stood Louie, peeling 
potatoes. When Cecil spoke to her, she cut her 
thumb. The sudden colour rushed into her face and 
ebbed, and she put her thumb in her mouth. So they 
did not shake hands. 

Cecil said, “ You don’t mind my coming, Louie ? ” 

Louie wrapped her thumb in her handkerchief. 
Cecil looked away. The handkerchiefs of the 
poor. . . . 

When the handkerchief was tied, Louie said, 
answering, “ Mind ? . . . Well, that do seem a 
bit queer.” 

She was just as of old, patient, reticent, brief of 
word ; thinking what ? Cecil’s thoughts bubbled 
out ; Louie’s didn’t ; there was the difference. 

" You’ve just got not to mind,” said Cecil. 
“ Because I want to see you — to go on seeing 
you. I think we can help each other, d’you 
know.” 

Louie peeled potatoes, painfully ; seeming in 
silence and without comment to accept the fact that 
Miss Cecil thought that. 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 209 

" You know I’ve been travelling with Benjie 
lately, helping him with his work ? ” Cecil said. 

Of course Louie knew that. Benjie had told her, 
on postcards. Others also had told her. Louie had 
heard it many times ; she was a little tired of hearing 
it, perhaps. 

“Yes. Yes, I heard that, Miss Cecil.’’ 

“ Oh, don’t call me Miss. Why will you ? Can't 
we forget those stupid things, and be friends ? ’’ 

Louie made no answer to that. Probably they 
could not ; possibly one of them did not wish to. 
Again one came up against that unrevealing 
inexpressiveness of Louie’s as against a blank wall. 
Cecil pulled herself together, remembered that she 
was grown up, and years older in everything that 
mattered than this wordless child of the poor. One 
had to tell oneself that from time to time with Louie, 
lest one should forget it. 

“ You haven’t written to Benjie lately,’’ said Cecil, 
for that was partly what she had come to say. 
“ WTiy haven’t you ? ” 

“ Excuse me, Miss Cecil — your skirt’s blowing into 
the trough. That’ll get messed.’’ 

Cecil moved away from the trough. 

“ Why haven’t you, Louie ? Benjie minded. So 
did I.” 

“I’m sure you’re very good,’’ Louie murmured, 
which was no answer, and Cecil laid a hand on 
her arm. 

“ Don’t be stupid, Louie. Don’t peel potatoes ; 
it’ll hurt your thumb . . . Now tell me, why did 

p 


210 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


you stop writing to Benjie directly I wrote to you for 
his address ? You haven’t sent a word since, and 
we’ve both been unhappy about it. Now don't 
say it was good of us, because you know that’s 
stupid of you. Do you know why it’s made us 
unhappy ? ” 

Louie took up another potato, and apparently did 
not know. So Cecil told her. 

“ Chiefly because it shows that you don’t under- 
stand. That your point of view about things is 
wrong. That you think one friendship, one com- 
panionship, is hurt by another. As if anything 
external like that could hurt a friendship. As if life 
wasn’t big enough to hold dozens of friendships for 
all of us, one making another richer. Louie, don’t 
you see ? Don’t you see how wrong it is to look at 
life like a dance, in which one partner supersedes — 
pushes out — another ? I believe that’s what you 
have been doing. But that’s not the civilised point 
of view.” 

Of course if it had been it couldn’t have been 
Louie’s, who was not civilised. Louie’s head ached 
a little. She remembered the London days, how 
Miss Cecil would talk and talk, and explain and ex- 
plain, and turn everything upside down, and all the 
time one knew so well, and words made nothing clearer. 
How the Rich did love words ! They exalted them ; 
made them fulfil too high an office. The Poor, too, 
love words ; but they keep them in their proper, lowly 
place, to describe things concrete, physical, external. 
The Rich think to use them to elucidate emotions 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 211 


and ideas, and the facts of the spirit ; so they pour 
them out and pour them out, and nothing is achieved, 
and, sublimely independent, the facts of the spirit 
persist, unaltered and unrevealed. 

Cecil still talked. But her talk weakened a little. 
She said, “ ’Tisn’t that you bother about conventions 
— proprieties, and all that stuff, Louie ? I’m sure you 
don’t. You don’t think Benjie and I oughtn’t to have 
gone together — I know you don’t. You see, we’re 
cousins ; and even if we weren’t, that’s all nonsense, 
isn’t it ? We knew you'd understand. And we 
thought you’d feel the same as we did about it.” 

Louie was wiping her hands on her apron, after 
the potatoes. She spoke at last, simply. 

“ You talk, Miss Cecil, as if you was thinking I 
were angry about Ben and you. I should be a proper 
fool if I was. Ben and me, we’ve agreed to let each 
other go our ways, and there it is. There ain’t nothing 
to be said about it, as I can see. Though I’m 
sure you meant it kind, to come . . . But you’ll 
excuse me, I must take the taters in. I’m fair busy 
to-day.” 

She took up the potato dish, and paused at the 
door into the house. 

“ Perhaps you’ll not mind stepping round that 
way.” She indicated the garden passage that led to 
the road. “ That’ll save you goin’ through the house 
again. Mother’s fair busy, and she’s sometimes 
short ... You won’t take it unkind.” 

Cecil began to speak again. 

“ I may come and see you sometimes ? I believe — 


212 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


I do believe — we can be some good to each other . . . 
I know you think we’re all rotters — but we do try not 
to be ; though I know if I was poor I should think it 
a fairly feeble sort of trying. But, you see, you can 
help us. And there may be some things in which we 
can help you ... I shall come again, you know. 
We’re not going to clear out of your life just because 
you’ve tried to clear out of ours. You can’t clear 
out : one never can, once one’s been in. It’s not all 
failed ; it’s still a splendid opportunity, and we’ve 
got to take it. We may make it, in the end, some- 
thing most awfully fine. Only don’t let’s be cowards, 
and lazy, and miss the chance. You see, Louie, 
don’t you ? It’s a chance ... a chance of a fine 
thing ... a chance. ...” 

Cecil’s speech trailed away. Somehow the situa- 
tion was upside down ; she wasn’t a garrulous child 
boring a patient, only half attentive elder who 
wanted to get on with the house work ; that was 
absurdly the wrong way up for it to be. She was a 
person who, seeing light, was trying to open the 
eyes of the half blind. 

“ I’m sure you’re proper kind,” was what Louie 
said, conducting her down the little path to the 
front. “ That’s a windy day for riding, isn’t it ? 
Good afternoon, and thank you for coming, I’m 
sure.” 

“ Good-bye. I shall come again, you know.” 

Louie, seeing her off, looked a little nervously up 
and down the road. 

Cecil rode away in a curious state of tiredness and 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 213 

dissatisfaction. No one likes being snubbed, even 
by the uncivilised ; and poor old Louie’s queer 
wordlessness almost made one feel snubbed at times. 
Poor old Louie had said nothing. There might be 
several reasons for this. She perhaps had had nothing 
to say. She perhaps had been thinking too exclu- 
sively of the potatoes. She perhaps hadn’t under- 
stood enough of what Cecil had been saying to answer ; 
probably Cecil should have been simpler, talked 
slower. Possibly Cecil herself had in her eagerness 
talked too continuously for the slow Louie to have a 
chance. Or again, Louie was perhaps hostile, hurt, 
jealous, even angry — though she hadn’t seemed 
that. 

Cecil, herself full of words, couldn’t understand 
the wordless ; they had her at their mercy, for she 
revealed all and learnt nothing. 

“ Poor people don’t put words to the same use as 
we do,” she said to herself. Which was exactly 
Louie’s own conclusion. 

But one poor person she was to encounter who did 
put words to some such use ; he might have been a 
rich person from his way with them. She met him 
just outside the village, and got off to speak to 
him. She had always felt an interest in ’Arry, who 
wrote poetry about the poor man, and money, and 
such. 

He was lounging against a telegraph post, smoking 
and coughing. His cough had grown very bad 
during the last year ; his chest had sunk in, and his 
cheeks had hollowed. Cecil held out her hand to him 


214 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


and said, “ How do you do ? I’ve just been to see 
your sister/’ 

Harry’s hands were in his pockets, and he made no 
motion to take them out, or to move forward from 
the telegraph post. For a moment he was wordless, 
like Louie. Cecil just had time to think that she 
really couldn’t bear a second dose of that, when he 
collected himself and gave her something quite 
different. 

'‘You have, have you?” he said slowly. “You 
have, have you ? ” 

There was something the matter with Harry. He 
wasn’t going to be nice. Cecil stopped wanting to 
talk to him ; she wanted instead to get on her bicycle 
and ride off. But she had courage ; she didn’t run 
away, but always saw things through. Perhaps the 
wordful are like that ; they have so much they want 
to say ; they feel they can dominate situations, and 
if they can’t they like to understand them. Anyhow 
they are not weaponless. Those who turn and flee 
are those who feel that facts are more than talk 
about facts, and that words will not avail. They are 
weaponless : so they flee. 

Cecil dauntlessly said, “ What are you being dis- 
agreeable about ? I suppose you blame us for Louie’s 
affairs. That’s not fair. Louie is taking her own 
way. Benjie didn’t want her to leave him. But I 
think it was sensible of her. Why can’t we all be 
friends still ? ” 

Harry coughed and said, “Yes, you talk. You talk 
and talk, just as you always did to Louie, driving her 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 215 

fair wild. Among the lot o’ you, you’ve spoilt her life 
— you and your fine notions and your talk, and havin’ 
her up among you and lookin’ at her as if she was a 
queer wild beast in a cage, and you was findin’ out if 
she ate nuts or not. I know. Louie’s rare and patient, 
but she couldn’t put up with that. An' you knew 
she couldn’t, and you went on, and you drove her 
away from her chap between you, makin’ her feel she 
were dirt beneath his feet, and tellin’ her the pore 
was so interestin’. 7 know ; I’ve heard you at it, 
you and the likes of you. Pore ! Pore \ Ain’t a man 
a man, then, pore or rich ? Curse that mealy chap 
that took her and wouldn’t play fair with her. I 
called him friend once, I did ; I thought he were a 
nice chap and played straight, and did ’is best to 
better pore men. I thought he meant right by Louie ; 
I never thought he’d throw ’er off when he was tired 
of havin’ a pore wife — throw ’er off with ’er ’eart 
broke and leave ’er alone. Mind you, Louie don’t 
say that : Louie says it were all her doin’, and she 
won’t have him spoke against. She says he’d ’ave 
’er back to-morrow if she’d go. But she won’t go. 
Nor I wouldn’t let ’er. I’d see ’er dead first, I would. 
Let ’er take up with an honest pore man and leave 
the gentry alone. Gentry ! Rotten, all of ’em, 
rotten all through. England won’t be fit for honest 
men to live in till there ain’t one o’ them gentry left 
in it. Them with their fair talk and their wantin’ to 
’elp the pore and their charity. Charity ! The 
charity we want out of them is the right to live. Ain’t 
we as good as you, then ? Ain’t we men and women. 


2l6 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


just the same? Yes, and better. Gentry!” He 
said some more, but it seems too familiar to be worth 
recording. Harry himself had very often said it be- 
fore, to larger audiences. He had it all on his tongue, 
and it streamed out in strident, cough-broken 
phrases. It was a discourse rather general than 
particular. But at the end it became particular 
again. Cecil, pale and worried, and wanting to talk 
herself, put in, " Oh, of course you’re right ; that’s 
just what we think, you know, lots of us.” 

Sarcasm deepened. “ Oh, that’s what you think, 
is it ? Oh, I know what you think ; you think you 
can have Louie’s chap all to yourself now. You and 
your vans, and your travellin’s and sellin’s — we 
know all about that down ’ere. An’ you have the 
cheek to come an’ show your face ’ere, an’ go an' 
crow over Louie.” 

Cecil stammered, “ What d’you mean by speaking 
to me like that ? There is nothing to be ashamed of 
in our travelling and selling. How — how dare you 
be so horrible and rude ? ” Words were no use ; 
they broke in her hands ; she stood helpless before 
him. 

He laughed harshly. 

" Rude . . . rude . . He was then ruder still, 
and coarser, till his cough intervened. He had talked 
so much more, so much louder, than was good for 
him. 

Cecil, while he coughed, got on her bicycle and 
rode towards Cambridge, crying as she rode. She 
was reduced at last to the wordless, abject shirker 


THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOHEMIAN 217 


of situations ; she was conquered with her own 
weapons, and, for the time being, had nothing to 
say. The poor are so dreadful, so fierce, so unjust, 
so unthinkably coarse. . . . 


CHAPTER XI 

MISSIONARIES AND METHODS 

There followed a warm winter, across which autumn 
seemed never-ceasingly to be reaching hands to 
spring, and the earth was soft with gentle rain and 
green with grass. Benjie and his horse and cart were 
down in the west, in the warmest corner of all. He 
was assiduously missionising. 

And in the early spring there came also to mission- 
ise the west, Bob Traherne and his gang of itinerant 
mission priests — a characteristic enterprise of Bob’s, 
this. One understands that there is an increasingly 
popular movement on these lines just now. It has 
romance, which should carry it far. 

Benjie, coming to a little Devon fishing village on 
a mild March afternoon came upon Bob in a shelter 
on the sea shore, boiling tea and composing a sermon 
(for it was Saturday). 

“ You’d better come and sleep in the van,” Benjie 
told him. “ It’s warm in there ; I keep a nice 
frowst.” 

“ It’s warm everywhere,” Bob returned. “ It's 
perfect weather. If it wasn’t I shouldn’t be here. 
Open-air services in the cold are no catch.” 

218 


MISSIONARIES AND METHODS 219 

“ Do you catch them ? ” Benjie was curious about 
it. He didn’t. 

“ Oh, to a certain extent. Holding them’s more 
difficult, of course, and what counts. But one can 
but fling one’s wares among them and be content if 
a little gets picked up, and less still kept, and least 
of all paid for.” 

“ I am not content,” said Benjie, soberly. He 
always wondered a little at Bob’s undimmed vivid- 
ness. 

Bob returned, “ You ! Of course not. . . . Well, 
have some tea, anyhow.” 

Benjie had some. It was good China tea, and a 
pleasant change after his own, which was one-and-six- 
pence, on principle. Good tea was Bob Traherne’s 
only extravagance. After drinking it and eating a 
slice of bread and raspberry jam, Benjie felt rather 
more content. 

“ Still,” he said, " I am not content. And why 
‘ of course not ’ ? Do you mean because my wares 
are bound to be unacceptable, in the nature of 
things ? ” 

“Yes,” said Bob, with his mouth full. 

“ Why should you say that ? ” 

“ I’ll tell you in a minute. . . . Have some more 
tea first. Jam ? Oh, there’s another pot somewhere. 
. . . Yes, I’ll tell you. In my view, you’re leaving 
out of account the most important force in the world, 
the keystone of all systems and all life.” 

“ Meaning ? ” Benjie feared he meant God, and 
there they couldn’t meet. “ Not religion ? ” 


220 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ Oh, well, religion's a product of it, of course — 
and that's why religion is bound to succeed where 
your systems of art and conduct can't. But what 
I was meaning by the keystone of all life is person- 
ality. That’s what you’re leaving out of account. 
I’ll tell you what you’re doing — you’re trying to 
destroy personality. You’re trying to enforce on 
people — on people , the genuine, live, sacred article 
— a system, a set of principles, a soulless code of life 
and art. You’re trying to give them what you think 
they ought to like, not what they do like. You’re 
despising personality. They like a wax nosegay ; 
you tell them they mustn’t. They admire a 
Christmas Illustrated ; you give them a John 
drawing and tell them to admire that instead. Good 
Lord, why should they ? They’re people, like your- 
self ; they know what they like, just as you do. 
Do you want to turn them into canting hypocrites, 
or to destroy their personality and kill their taste 
and admirations and give them nothing in exchange ? 
You can’t, you know. Personality’s too strong for 
that. People were made before art, presumably. 
They’ll like what they like as long as they continue 
to be people at all. . . . Didn’t I say all this to 
you ages ago ? I meant to, I’m sure.” 

“ Probably. I forget. If you did I no doubt 
thought it nonsense. I do still. And look here, 
you’re preaching against yourself, you know, as 
much as against me. I should like to know what 
you are doing, if not trying to give people what you 
think they ought to like instead of what they do 


MISSIONARIES AND METHODS 


221 


like. If that’s destroying personality, you’re 
destroying it as hard as you can.” 

“ There,” said Bob, with satisfaction, emptying 
the tea-pot, “ we come to the point — the immense 
difference between Christians and other systematisers. 
Yes, I grant you the systematising ; and if the 
churches aren’t careful it may undo them. But, 
at their best — oh, and at their worst, of course — 
they base it all on personality. They don’t take 
away personality and give nothing for it ; they aim 
merely at making gaps through which a greater 
personality can flow in. See ? It’s all personal : a 
system if you like, but a living system. It’s not a 
dead code but a living force. And alive because 
backed by a person ; no other reason whatever. 
There never is any other reason why anything is 
alive. Of course a believer in any sort of a personal 
God is bound to know that personality is the source 
of all life, the keystone of all systems ; he at least 
can’t (if he’s logical, which he seldom is) make your 
mistake, of subordinating people to theories. Also, 
he never need fail. When a secularist’s systems 
break and fail, what has he to fall back on ? When 
a Christian’s enterprises fail, as they keep doing, of 
course, he has the unquenchable source of inspira- 
tion and enterprise to fall back on — that is, person- 
ality — a Personality greater and more living than 
his own. That’s what he believes, and that’s where 
he scores. My word, I’m sorry for you secularists.” 

" And yet,” mused Benjie, " we work for the same 
things, you and I. We both want to subordinate 


222 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


individualism to authority ; we both want a Socialist 
state. How can you want that, if individuality is 
everything ? Why aren’t you an anti-socialist, an 
individualist, a Protestant, an anarchist ? ” 

“ Oh, Socialism. You know, your theory of 
Socialism is really rather vieux jeu. How often I say 
(usually in the C.S.Q., which I regularly send you, 
by the way) that Socialism is merely a means to the 
one great end — the setting free of personality. Once 
you make it a limiting or cramping of character, it’s 
precious little use. It's a useful system, like the 
Church, but subordinate always. . . . People, 
people, people — there isn’t anything else in heaven 
or earth. I don’t give a farthing dip for any principle 
whatever which isn’t kept in its proper place, well 
beneath individual human needs. Principles must 
be adaptable ; all subservient to the one end. . . . 
You know, if I may say so, you do the most profane 
things, Benjie. You subordinate people to theories 
in a way I call rank blasphemy.” 

“You are thinking of my marriage, I infer.” 

“ That’s acute of you. I am. You married a 
person — a live human soul — a living specimen of 
the force that animates all the worlds — for the sake 
of a principle, an idea. My dear man, it was prepos- 
terous of you ; so ludicrously the wrong way round 
that words fail one.” 

“ The supply seems to be lasting out so far,” 
Benjie grunted. 

“ Well, you can think it cheek, my saying this ; 
but you can’t deny its truth. You can’t deny that 


MISSIONARIES AND METHODS 223 


it failed, your beautiful plan ; went smash, and 
your two lives with it. That’s what occurs when 
you have the theory on the top and the people 
underneath ; when the theory caves in it crushes 
the people. Whereas, if you have it the proper way 
up, people uppermost, the rest nowhere, you’re all 
right.” 

“ I see. The lawless life of individual impulse 
and desire. In one word, anarchy. I don’t think 
you’re doing yourself and you’re principles justice ; 
if you are, and if that’s what the Church is preaching 
just now, it is a more harmful and dangerous organ- 
isation than I thought.*’ 

“ The Church,” said Bob, “ regards the individual 
soul as more important than any system or anything 
else in the world. If you call that dangerous, she 
is dangerous. I admit that she’s dangerous to all 
the dead codes and systems that cumber the world. 
She’s more or less of an explosive, of course. The 
personal element is always something like dynamite. 
And dynamite is good for clearing obstructed roads. 
. . . Oh, you’ll see in the end how everything drops 
away and decays and dies, and only people remain, 
immortal and unquenchable, the source of all the 
new life that is to be. . . . How do we know that 
anything else exists, even now ? We don’t. We 
often suspect it doesn’t.” (Bob had taken the 
Moral Science Tripos, though he had really quite 
got over it some years ago, except when he was 
excited, as now.) “ But we know that we exist 
ourselves ” (he had anyhow got over it that far) 


224 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ and that other minds exist. You and I and that 
fisherman wading will be there when there is no more 
sea. . . . We are there, even though there is no 
sea now. . . 

Bob quieted himself over a clay pipe. 

Benjie, lying on the sands, listened to the washing 
of the evening waves, and watched the fisherman 
walking bare-legged on wet sands. He was a big 
man in a blue jersey ; from his roll, a sailor not long 
from the sea ; from his grizzling, curly hair a man 
of middle age — something under fifty, perhaps. He 
was coming up from the sea towards them. When 
he had got half-way, Bob made a sudden movement 
of recognition, and took out his pipe and stood up 
with outstretched hand. 

“ Hullo ; so it’s you. I’m frightfully glad to see 
you ; no idea you weren’t somewhere in the China 
seas.” 

The big man smiled at him, and his brown, beard- 
less face was like a boy’s. He had very blue eyes 
and a frank, candid, beaming gaze. 

" I've quit sailoring, Mr. Traherne, sir. I’ve a 
mind to try the land, now I’m getting old. I heard 
you were here, so I came out to find you, and give 
you a shake of the hand for old times.” His blue 
glance fell on Benjie, and Bob said, " Benjie, this is 
a friend of mine, whom I saw last at Savona, when I 
was in charge of the sailors’ club there three years ago. ’ ' 

Benjie and the sailor gripped hands. 

“ Yiss,” the sailor said, in his soft, deep, lilting 
voice, touched with Devon accent, yet rather of the 


MISSIONARIES AND METHODS 225 

sea than of any corner of the land. “ There we met, 
sure. The young parson saved me my ship that day. 
I’d a nigh lost her, drinkin’ in the town. Drunk 
away all my money, I had. An’ I never could pay 
back what you lent me, parson, though you said I 
should one day ; but the day ain’t here yet, times bein’ 
hard.” 

“ Oh, that’ll keep, that’ll keep. It’s good of you 
to come and see me like this.” 

The blue beam of the candid eyes pleased Benjie, 
though the man, it seemed, had no sense of honour. 
He thought he had better leave the friends alone, 
but Bob thought not, so he stayed and listened to 
their conversation. 

This, he reflected, was the sort of person who 
gathered about Bob, who loved persons more than 
principles. A pleasant friend, no doubt ; but prob- 
ably lacking in fibre, since he got drunk and didn’t 
even desire to pay back what he owed. Benjie, 
loving principles more than persons, had no use for 
such as he. Besides, he wore ear-rings, and personal 
adornments are a symbol of futility. 

The sailor’s soft talk lilted on pleasantly with the 
lilting waves ; he was telling Bob about many 
adventures by sea and land. They didn’t always 
redound to his credit ; but he had a nice chuckle, 
and Benjie was interested, having a boy’s taste for 
a story. They had supper together (Benjie thought 
that the sailor would always have supper with any- 
one who asked him) and talked on till half-past ten, 
when Bob said it was bed-time, because he had to 

Q 


226 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


take a service at seven next day. He said to 
his friend the sailor, “ I'll walk home with you. 
Wait for me, Benjie, will you,” and Benjie 
washed up his supper things for him while he was 
gone. 

When Bob came back (he was gone some time) he 
asked, “ What do you think of him ? ” 

Benjie replied, “ Rather a pleasant sort of a scamp. 
Not the type one has much use for, of course.” 

" A good companion,” said Bob. 

“ Good company,” Benjie amended. “For a 
companion one wants, I think, a rather more civilised 
moral code. He’s an amiable barbarian. I suppose 
he will now devote himself to a life of loafing, 
drinking, and cadging.” 

“ He’s worth saving from that,” said Bob, 
thoughtfully. “ There’s some work ready to your 
hand, Benjie, if you want to do some reforming.” 

“ That,” said Benjie, " seems rather your job 
than mine.” 

Bob said, after a pause, “ It does seem so, per- 
haps. ... By the way, he’s coming to see you 
to-morrow, before you make a move. I told him 
he’d better come to breakfast with you.” 

“ Good of you. You’d better come too. What 
does he want to see me for ? ” 

“ Likes you, I suppose. Oh, and I fancy he’s got 
something to say, as well. No thanks, I won’t come 
too. . . . Well, good-night. Nice of you to have 
done the washing up.” 

The next day, after breakfast with his visitor, 


MISSIONARIES AND METHODS 227 


Benjie turned his face to the east. He wanted to 
speak to his people. Besides, disturbing rumours 
had come to him, partly through Cecil, who was 
indignant, partly through Lady Lettice, who wasn’t, 
of the state of Mr. Bunter’s constituency. The 
long-deferred elections were due at last, and now the 
corrupt practices of Mr. Bunter’s friends were to 
bear fruit. Benjie felt he must be there, to see the 
worst for himself, and possibly to urge Mr. Bunter 
to separate himself publicly from the policy of his 
supporters, lest he should be suspected of the taint. 
Perhaps, too, he could do a little counter-influencing, 
something to undermine the insidious influence of 
Merrilies End and its preposterous charity, some- 
thing to waken a sense of shame in recipients or 
givers. But of the givers he had little hope ; he 
believed them to be lost eternally, and wished to have 
no more traffic with them. His square chin stuck 
out uncompromisingly as he thought of them. If 
he could do nothing else in their neighbourhood, he 
could say some hard things of them, which would 
no doubt come to their ears. Then they would mind 
a little, being of that soft kind which likes to please 
and be liked. 

" Get on, Richard,” said Benjie, and cracked his 
whip sharply (not everyone can crack whips, but 
he could), and drew his coat up over his ears, for 
St. Wulstan was come, roaring like mad. 

So he pushed his way across England, from the 
warm hills of the West to the blown plains of the 
East, and passed about St. Cuthbert’s day through 


228 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Cambridge. There he called on J erry , and told him the 
latest news about his own concerns, which Jerry of 
course received with tranquillity. He didn’t, in 
fact, seem much impressed. Nothing in the sphere 
of outward happenings did impress or interest Jerry 
very much. 

Then they talked of the corrupt constituency. 
Jerry, peaceful still, said, “ Oh, why worry ? Politics 
are like that, aren’t they ? Politicians are never 
honest, I believe, poor things. It’s not their fault ; 
it’s the horrible party system.” 

They agreed about the party system being horrible ; 
to Benjie horrible because it was party, to Jerry 
because it was politics. 

" But why should these Crevequers,” complained 
Benjie, “ mix themselves up with elections and 
politics ? It’s not as if they cared or knew anything 
about it.” 

" No,” agreed Jerry thankfully ; “ they don’t. 
But they like to please father and all of us. They’ll 
be extremely disappointed when they find they’re 
not pleasing you. Besides, it’s not only the elec- 
tion, or chiefly ; they love giving away for it’s own 
sake.” 

“ Again the desire to please,” Benjie commented. 

“ To please themselves too,” Jerry added. " It’s 
the only possible way they have of living.- Soon, 
you know, at this rate, their money will be all gone, 
and then they’ll take to the roads, I suppose, and 
share the cheaper sorts of food with other tramps. 
They’re the sharing sort. You can’t blame them 


MISSIONARIES AND METHODS 229 

for that, or expect them to change their habits 
suddenly because you don’t approve.” 

“ I like people to have at least the rudiments of 
common sense and common honesty,” Benjie 
remonstrated. 

Jerry regarded him tranquilly. “ I know you do. 
But so many people succeed in being extraordinarily 
pleasant without them. Don’t worry. Stay the 
night with me.” 

“ No. I’m in a hurry. I shall go through Wattles 
and see Louie. Do you see her at all ? ” 

“ No. Cecil does, I believe. She’s made great 
friends, it seems, with ’Arry. She says she’s got to 
educate him out of something — I forget what. I 
think she was by way of being rather disgusted with 
him at one time — he was rude to her, I gather — 
but she has put that behind her ; she says one must, 
with poor people. So now they’re friends. I can't 
like Cecil’s friends as a rule ; they’re apt to be so 
very excitable, not to say noisy. Her taste needs 
toning down. It seems that ’Arry is teaching her 
the truth about the condition of the poor. From her 
accounts of their discussions, one would gather that 
he does it by throwing things at her. However, it 
seems to make her happy. Oh, and she reads his 
poetry to me. Repulsive, of course. . . . Must you 
really go now? You may find Cecil over at 
Wattles.” 

Benjie did. She was in the parlour with Harry, 
reading him the paper she had written for her 
college debating society, while he punctuated it 


230 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


with a fire of criticisms, and she made a certain 
number of corrections to meet them. She knew of 
course that her literary style was better than his, 
but he knew more about the subject — at least he 
knew it practically, she only theoretically, and 
Cecil had been going in with enthusiasm for the 
practical realities lately. He called her “ Cecil,” 
and “my dear girl.” She liked that satisfactory 
elimination of class snobbery, that Louie could 
never rise to. 

Benjie was glad Cecil and Harry had made friends. 
He approved of such friendships. Cecil welcomed 
him with pleasure, and looked nervously at Harry, 
who made it obvious he wasn’t going to shake hands. 
He had forgiven Cecil for being a lady, because she 
had insisted on it, and was good at appreciating 
him, but he hadn’t forgiven Benjie for being a 
gentleman and ruining Louie’s life thereby, or for 
travelling in a van with Cecil. So they didn’t shake 
hands. 

Cecil said, “ Don’t be stupid, Harry.” 

Harry said, ironically, “ Oh, yes. That’s stupid, 
ain’t it, not to kow-tow to them as are up in the 

world. That's stupid not to forget an’ forgive, 

ain’t it, when a man ’as a position behind ’im. 

Cornin’ ’ere to whistle the girls back to you, are 

you, lest they forget ? You mayn’t find them 
so ready to come when they’re called as you 
think, s*>.” 

An insupportable person. Cecil could stand him 
(at times with an effort) because “ the poor ” are 


MISSIONARIES AND METHODS 231 

like that, and she was taking on the poor un- 
flinchingly just now. Benjie couldn't, because the 
poor aren’t like that, but men and women like 
himself, and a rude man is a rude man though he 
have not a penny. So, since Harry was a poor 
consumptive, intensely to be pitied, he had nothing 
to say in the parlour, but went through to “ the 
back,” to find Louie. 

Louie, who was giving scraps to the hen, received 
him with her gentle, colourless kindness. They then 
had a long conversation, and discussed the re- 
arrangement of their lives, being as how things were 
now different like, and Benjie had a plan. There was, 
of course, Miss Cecil, whom Ben ought to have 
had, and Ben was fond of Miss Cecil and Miss Cecil 
of Ben. 

“ Of course we are ; we’re cousins,” said Benjie ; 
but Louie looked doubtful over that. Miss Cecil 
was, however, shelved for the moment ; there were 
other pressing topics, and it was all very difficult, 
and not near so simple as Ben thought. Ben’s plans 
were always so beautifully clear-cut. Was he sure 
he meant all he said ? Sure Louie wouldn’t be in 
the way ? Benjie said he was quite sure. 

“ I must think about it,” said Louie. “ I dunno 
as I won’t, and I dunno as I will ...” (she was 
leaving Ben loopholes, nervously jerking scraps to 
the hen now replete). " I’ll write, Ben. . . . That 
do seem as if it were meant, some’ow, this happenin’ 
an’ all ; but I’ll write.” 

“ Meant ? ” said Benjie. “ I mean it, you know. 


232 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


You mustn’t say meant, Louie. You mustn't 
believe in a compelling destiny ; that strikes at the 
roots of all liberty. I mean, you may believe in it 
— one can't help it, looking at life from one aspect 
— but you mustn’t think about it, or you become 
insane, like a squirrel in a cage.” 

Louie said, feelingly but absently, “ Pore little 
things. That do seem cruel, don’t it. . . . ’Arry 
and Miss Cecil, Ben, are proper friendly now.” She 
looked a touch troubled over that. 

“ So I infer,” said Benjie. 

" That don’t seem quite right, do it ? ” said Louie; 
“ an’ them so different. ’Arry do make free with 
her ; I don’t like to hear the way he go on. I speak 
to him about it, but he tell me to mind my own 
business an’ ’e’ll mind ’is.” 

Benjie too thought that the best way. Such 
friendships are exactly what are wanted, of course. 
They are part of the Idea. He approved of Cecil 
for doing it : 'Arry wasn’t an easy friend to take on. 

“ Well,” said Louie, with a little sigh, “ it makes 
pore ’Arry 'appy ; an’ we’re sometimes fearin’ as 
'e ain’t got long. 'E can’t work now, you know, not 
more than a little at a time, pore lad. An’ 'e an’ 
Miss Cecil, they talk away ; they fair make my head 
go round ; but there, they like it.” 

They parted on an indeterminate note. Louie 
was still puzzled, undecided, uneasy, leaving loop- 
holes for Benjie. New desire jostled in her patient 
eyes with old doubts ; hungrily she searched her 
husband’s very young, very honest face. Did he 


MISSIONARIES AND METHODS 233 

still not know what love was ? Louie, who had 
feared he might have learnt, believed now that still 
he did not know. And that being so, what was her 
course ? She passed a rough hand over her aching 
eyes, and “ I'll write," she said. 


CHAPTER XII 


FAMILY MATTERS 

Ben j ie said to Lady Lettice and Mr. Bunter at 
tea, “ I am extremely surprised that you should 
have thought it well to keep me in ignorance all 
these years of so important a point connected with 
me as the identity of my parents.” 

Hugh, who was having tea also, sat up and looked 
interested. Mr. Bunter looked for assistance to 
Lady Lettice, found none, and said weakly, “ My 
dear boy, this is most unexpected. Who has been 
speaking to you ? ” 

Lady Lettice lay back on the sofa and shut her 
eyes and said faintly, “ He’s been meeting the man 
Prittie.” 

“ As you deduce,” said Benjie, “ I have been 
meeting my father, who informed me that you 
had paid him off, so to speak, at my mother’s death, 
and induced him to keep out of the country and hold 
no communication with me. He has now got tired 
of being on the sea, and wishes to settle down in this 
country, and has (very rightly, I think) broken his 
bargain with you and introduced himself to me. I 


FAMILY MATTERS 


235 


met him casually, and Bob Traherne told him who 
I was. Bob, it seems, has known all about it for 
some time ; my father told him the story three years 
ago, at Savona. Bob should, I think, have put me 
in possession of the facts when he learnt them ; but 
he says he was told in confidence. You, I presume, 
had adequate reasons for keeping me in the dark 
all these years." 

Lady Lett ice, recovering a little from the shock, 
said, “ Oh, my darling boy, don’t use such long 
words ! Reasons — oh, of course. So obvious, aren’t 
they. If you’ve met the man Prittie — your father, 
as you say, yes, of course — one needn’t explain, 
need one. They jump to the eyes, don’t they, 
darling. Your dear mother, you know — so sad, 
but she was so reckless always, dear Sylvia, and she 
just went off with this sailor person quite quietly. 
A disreputable scamp, but so good-looking and with 
a soft tongue, and used to take her out fishing in his 
boat when we stayed in Devonshire ; that was how 
it happened ; yes. And then suddenly Sylvia 
eloped with him. They got married quite quietly 
and slily, and no one could stop it. And then, you 
know, within the year your dear mother died, and 
we agreed with the sailor person that we should 
take you and bring you up and give him money to 
keep away from you and never let you know. And 
now he’s gone and told you. How like Prittie ! And 
fancy his meeting Bob and telling him, and Bob 
saying nothing to me ; how sly of Bob ! ’’ 

“ I understand it was a confidence. And now may 


236 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


I ask why you did this, please ? Why should I have 
been kept in ignorance of ” 

“ Oh, darling, don’t begin like that again ; it’s 
so silly. What don’t you understand exactly ? 
Obviously it was pleasanter for you not to know ; 
even you must see that, though you are so slow about 
some things.” 

“ I don’t see it. Why was I taken from my 
father ? ” 

Lady Lettice looked helplessly at Mr. Bunter, who 
cleared his throat and intervened. 

“ My dear Benjie, it was obviously better that you 
should be brought up by your mother’s family — by 
her own sister, in fact. You have always been to 
us as one of our own.” 

Benjie acknowledged that. Sore and cross and 
uncomfortable, he was still affectionate and grateful. 

“ All the same, I don’t see why my father should 
have been kept away from me with such pains. One 
ought to know one’s father. I think one ought.” 

The Bunters’ silence implied that there are fathers 
and fathers, and that the man Prittie was one of 
the second order of fathers. 

“ I presume that you were actuated by class 
prej — feeling,” said Benjie, being polite. 

Lady Lettice admitted it. Mr. Bunter said, 
being humorous, “ We did not know that our 
nephew was going to grow up such a Socialist. If we 
had, we might have altered our plan for his up- 
bringing. But, wrongly no doubt, we were of the 
opinion that it is on the whole better to be a gentle- 


FAMILY MATTERS 


237 


man. I know, in these enlightened days, such an 
opinion is sadly out of date. Tempora mutantur .” 

‘'Now Mervyn’s beginning/' murmured Lady 
Lettice. “ How you two do start one another off ! 
Now try to be reasonable, Benjie. Of course it’s 
nicer to have a proper education and go to Eton 
and Cambridge, and know nice people, and have a 
respectable father ; isn’t it, Hughie ? Tell him so.” 

But Hugh only smiled, and said, “ Well, you see, 
it depends on the point of view. It’s just a question 
of taste, I fancy. Isn’t it, Benjie ? ” 

Benjie was irritated with Lady Lettice for saying 
a thing like that. 

“ Really, mother, I wish you wouldn’t. ... A 
respectable father ; I hate the word. You merely 
mean by it a father of a certain position in society. 
I don’t. I mean a father worthy of respect.” 

Lady Lettice looked up at the ceiling, and her 
moment’s silence seemed to call her sister Sylvia 
to testify whether the man Prittie had ever been 
worthy of respect. 

“ My dear, a vagabond ! ” she murmured. “ A 
loafer, a — I fear, a drinker. Sailors, you know ; so 
unsteady. And now you say he’s left the sea, and 
he’ll be worse than ever. Oh, yes, Benjie, I know 
he’s your father ; but I can’t call him respectable 
for that. Did he strike you as — as worthy of respect, 
darling ? ” 

“ I scarcely know him,” said Benjie, getting stolid. 

Mr. Bunter again struck in. 

“ You must take our word on that head, my dear 


238 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


boy. Your poor father, I’m sorry to have to say it 
to you, is not a respectable person, I fear, in any use 
of the word. Your moth — your aunt has described 
him only too accurately. We have done our best to 
keep him straight in the past, but it was of little 
avail. He has, alas, served more than one time in 
prison. He has levied continuous blackmail — I 
can’t call it by less harsh a name — on us ; and now 
that he sees a chance of getting profit out of you he 
has broken his solemn word to us and betrayed our 
trust. No ; I cannot describe him in favourable 
terms, I regret to say.” 

Hugh intervened. “ I say, he is Benjie’s father, 
you know. Rather rough, isn’t it ? . . .” 

Benjie, who looked unmoved, shot a glance at 
Hugh’s tranquil face. Hugh and Jerry both had a 
placid way of taking startling information. 

“ You don’t seem surprised, particularly,” said 
Benjie. 

Hugh said, “ Oh, no. I’m not. I’ve known it for 
years. I found it out before I went to Eton. I was 
told not to tell you, you know, or I would have. I 
quite agree that one ought not to be kept in ignorance 
of these intimate family circumstances. Later, I’ve 
often wanted to tell you, because I knew you’d be 
so pleased.” 

" It did seem strange,” said Lady Lettice, pen- 
sively, “ your taking to playing at being a poor man, 
darling, when all the time ... It made me quite 
anxious, because there’s so much in heredity, every- 
one says. Now, don’t laugh, Hugh ; it’s nothing 


FAMILY MATTERS 


239 


to laugh at at all. Of course Benjie isn't like his 
unfortunate father a bit — except a little bit to look 
at, only Prittie was such a handsome fellow, but 
the eyes, you know — well, Benjie isn’t like him a 
bit in character ; you were always such a hard worker, 
darling, weren’t you. and almost too severe on people 
who didn’t care for work but just loafed. The idle 
rich and the idle poor — you never could like any of 
them, I remember.” 

" No,” said Benjie. " Not particularly.” 

“ Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Bunter, “ our workers 
are the fibre of our imperial tree.” He made a note 
of it, to tell his electors. 

“ So sensible of you, dearest boy,” said Lady 
Lettice. “ And your poor father, you know, is not 
fond of work.” 

Benjie, who had already relegated his father to 
Class III, those who didn’t work though they needed 
the money, was bored by all this. He quite well 
knew what sort of a person his father was ; of course 
he didn’t care about that sort of person, or approve 
of it, but one’s father was one’s father, and Benjie 
believed in the family. 

“ In future,” he said, “ my father and I shall 
live together. Louie has already consented, or half 
consented, to join us. We shall return to my forge, 
and my father and I will work it between us.” 
(Lady Lettice’s brows went up, presumably in resig- 
nation to one partof the programme and scepticism 
as to the other.) “ I shall also do carpentering work.” 

A hard-working, steady, well-ordered artisan 


240 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


household; Benjie’s ideal for the English home. 
Benjie looked pleased with it. 

Lady Lettice said, “ Oh, that silliness about the 
forge again. I thought you’d got over that, Benjie. 
And I thought dear Louie wouldn’t live with you 
again on any account.” 

“ Now that she knows I am of the same class (as 
you all call it) as herself, and that I am going to 
settle down with my father, I think she will.” 

Lady Lettice looked indignant. “ Indeed, she’s 
very much mistaken. Class, indeed ! What about 
your mother’s class, I should like to ask her ? ” 

“ I trust,” said Benjie, “ that you will do nothing 
of the sort. And of course one belongs to one’s 
father’s — sort of people ” — (he evaded the snobbish 
word). He added after a moment, “ I think, do you 
know, it will be better that Louie shouldn’t meet 
any of you much in future. It upsets her ; makes 
her feel uncomfortable. I know you were awfully 
kind to her, but you didn’t feel she was an equal, 
and of course she saw it.” 

“ Well, darling, I suppose she would see it.” 
Lady Lettice implied that it would have been very 
improper of Louie if she hadn’t. " But you know how 
interested we all are in dear Louie. Ida Venables 
would be quite disappointed not to see her again — 
watch the development of her soul, you know ; Ida 
is always so interested in that. And I’m sure we all 
did our best to draw her out, and ...” 

“ Louie and I,” said Mr. Bunter, “ had several 
most interesting and notable conversations. I 


FAMILY MATTERS 


241 


think I was able to open her mind to several new 
impressions, new aspects of our policy. She learnt 
from me a considerable amount of constitutional 
lore, I fancy. She was extremely interested in the 
Houses of Parliament. I remember I told her a good 
deal about the working of our Government. She was 
interested ; I think I may say she saw new light in 
various directions.” 

" And all the time,” Hugh put in absently, “ she 
wanted to be at the White City.” 

Benjie said, “ I know you were all awfully kind. 
But — you don’t feel her an equal, so it’s all not an 
atom of use.” 

“ Well, dearest, she’s not that, is she ? So nice 

and so good and so interesting , but You see, if 

she had been an equal you wouldn’t have married 
her, would you, and then we should never have 
known her, should we. So, you see ...” 

“ The situation, being put by you on a certain 
basis,” Hugh murmured, explanatorily, “ had to be 
taken as such by those who subsequently came into 
contact with it. Perhaps it’s no longer on that basis, 
though ? ” 

He was in advance of Benjie in perceptiveness 
and lucidity of thought, so Benjie didn’t answer him, 
but sighed. 

“ When does the new menage begin ? ” Hugh 
inquired, and Benjie said, “ After the elections, I 
hope.” 

“You busy with the elections ? You don’t take 
a side, do you ? ” 

R 


242 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ No. But it’s an opportunity for getting people’s 
attention. I speak about the Poor Law and the 
Minimum Wage, when anyone will listen. I shall 
also speak, round about here, about the receipt of 
indiscriminate charity. The whole countryside 
appears to be rotten with it.” 

Mr. Bunter said, " Really ! That’s those young 
people at Merrilies End. Young scamps. Dis- 
graceful, certainly. Though, mind you, there’s some- 
thing to be said for the old feudal idea — Squire and 
Lady Bountiful giving largess to the villagers. I 
always maintain there’s something fine in that 
played-out idea. You’d say, throw it on the dust- 
heap with the peers of the realm and the monarchy 
and all the gently-born folk — make a bonfire of all 
of them, eh ? And begin again fresh with a little 
for everyone and no margin for giving away. Well, 
well, where does Christian charity come in, at that 
rate ? You must allow a little merit to the stupid 
old notions, Benjie, after all. Don’t pitch into them 
too severely. After all, those young people have 
given fresh life and hope to numbers of destitute 
folk.” 

Benjie never answered Mr. Bun ter ’s general 
remarks ; he had nothing to say to them ; in fact, 
he seldom listened much ; but this last was particu- 
lar, so he said, “I understand they have been 
practically supporting numbers of perfectly able- 
bodied people. I shall certainly say what I think of 
that. People like the Crevequers are doing their 
best to throw economic conditions back a hundred 


FAMILY MATTERS 


243 

years. And they are starting a sort of Egyptian 
plague of guinea-pigs over the country/’ 

Lady Lettice murmured, “ They do increase so, 
don’t they,” soothing him. " But I expect they never 
thought of that, you know, when they first got a 
pair ; they’re very heedless. I expect they never 
thought about the economic conditions either. They 
do so enj oy making people happy. They’re immensely 
popular everywhere now.” 

Benjie had no doubt of that. 

“ Benjie, dear,” Lady Lettice said before he went, 
” you aren’t going to talk about your father to 
people in general, are you ? ” 

" I have already,” said Benjie, " taken my own 
name. I shall answer any questions I am asked 
about it. Beyond that, it is no one’s business but 
my own, of course.” 

" Oh, darling, hadn’t you better go on quietly 
as you were before ? ” Lady Lettice was agitated. 
“ Is it any use raking up the sad old story for every- 
one to be shocked at ? ” 

Benjie frowned. ” Why sad ? Why shocked ? 
It’s no disgrace to be the son of a sailor. It’s no 
disgrace to marry a sailor. It’s no disgrace to adopt 
a nephew. I don't see what there is for anyone to 
be shocked at.” 

“ Benjie, you see,” Hugh explained, “ has achieved 
the ambition of a lifetime at last. You can’t expect 
him to hide his glory.” 

Hugh had always elucidated Benjie to his parents, 
from the time when Benjie was an obstinate infant 


244 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


who made difficulties, and Hugh a serene little boy 
who liked things to run pleasantly. Hugh was never 
puzzled by anyone. 

When Benjie had gone, Mr. Bunter said, “ We 
must see what can be done. I must write to Prittie 
and try to prevail on him to take himself off. This 
can’t be allowed, of course. It would be a scandal. 
It is a pity Benjie always gets on the high horse and 
refuses to see reason. As usual, he is running off 
with a picturesque idea. I wish Benjie were more a 
man of the world ; it is time he began to be ; he 
is no longer a child, and he should put away childish 
things.” 

" Do you think, Hughie,” Lady Lettice inquired 
of her son, “ that Benjie wants to do this unfortunate 
person good ? Is that his idea ? Benjie is always so 
taken up with notions like that — education and 
social reform and all that.” 

“ Oh, no doubt he intends to turn his father into 
a respectable working man ; the honest working man , 
you know, is the salt of the earth. It’s to be an ideal 
household ; the hard-working artisan and his in- 
dustriously assisting parent and housekeeping wife, 
living in a model cottage, with a bath that the artisan 
insists on the parent and wife both using daily, and 
that they insist on keeping the coals in. I don’t 
know Mr. Prittie (I wish I did, he sounds amusing) ; 
but I can imagine his attitude towards the pro- 
ceedings. It will all be a great new interest for 
Benjie. I don’t think you ought to grudge it to 
him. Benjie is so fresh always ; he doesn’t seem to 


FAMILY MATTERS 


245 

have grown up in the least since his matrimonial 
experiment failed." 

Hugh went away to write to Anne Vickery about 
it, since it seemed that everyone was to know. He 
was feeling mildly annoyed with Anne, because she 
wouldn’t marry him, but he always told her things 
that would amuse her. 

Benjie dismissed his model household from his 
mind till the time should come to think of it. At 
present the time had come to think of bribery, 
corruption, the defiance of economic principles, and 
the ruin of independence, industry, and proper spirit. 
So he thought of them sadly and talked of them 
exhaustively, now colloquially in public houses, 
now oratorically on village greens. He was rather 
a bore, but he amused himself well over it, and other 
people didn’t listen very much, so on the whole it 
was a profitable occupation. After all, Benjie 
always had that answer to give to any challenge 
as to the desirability of his ploys ; they interested 
at least one person extremely. That may be but a 
weak argument for educating a parent or experi- 
menting in matrimony (which enterprises probably 
give more annoyance to others than they are worth 
in pleasure to the experimenter), but it is a sound one 
for trying to sell John drawings and self-made settles 
and for talking in villages about economic corrup- 
tion, which hurts no one. Of course when he became 
obviously particular and personal in his references, 
people began to be rather interested, and to listen 
and summon one another to hear. Then he 


246 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


became more particular and personal, till he was 
positively offensive, considering how many of those 
listening had probably benefited at one time or 
another by the system he described as scandalous 
pauperisation. They thought him offensive. They 
said, “ Pauper yourself," and “ Seem as if it was 
time someone gave you something, if it was only a 
new hat," and other things like that. Benjie said 
he had a hat which suited him, and he wasn’t going 
to ask anyone for another ; when he wanted a new 
hat he earned the money and bought one. 

“ Poor chap, times must have been ’ard lately," 
they said, deriding him and his hat. 

Benjie went on about able-bodied people accepting 
support and relief till they were really angry. 

“ Suppose people may accept ’ospitality from them 
as can afford to give it, without being called to order 
by folks whose grapes is sour. I say Merrilies End 
’as been a boon to the neighbourhood, and I don’t 
care who I say it to." 

Someone said, “ Three cheers for Merrilies End," 
and they were given. (They were quite close to the 
Merrilies End gates.) You cheer anything and any- 
body at election time. You also hiss anything and 
anybody, and Benjie was hissed. He was also 
hustled off his feet and jostled to the ground, where 
he lay unconscious, because the back of his head 
had struck the pump, and his knee was badly 
wrenched, probably sprained. First-aiders rushed 
in, seeing their chance. Before they could do much 
harm, some people passing in a motor car stopped 


FAMILY MATTERS 


247 


to see what was the matter, and having discovered, 
took the case into their own house, which was quite 
close. They were frightened about him ; he looked 
so pale and hurt, and wouldn’t become conscious. 
The doctor, when he came, brought him back to his 
senses by hurting his knee badly. When he had 
hurt him a little more, he said he must be put to 
bed and not moved, and the parish nurse came. 

Benjie said, “ What about Richard ? ” and the 
nurse said, “ There, it’s all right ; you keep quiet,” 
till Benjie frowningly collected his words, seeing 
that she was fool enough not to know who Richard 
was, and inquired after his horse and van. The 
nurse then said, “ Oh, the van. It’s been brought 
up safely and put away in the stables, I believe.” 

“ Where am I ? ” Benjie asked, giddily. 

“ Why, at Merrilies End, to be sure. You were 
hurt just outside the gates, you know, and Mr. and 
Miss Crevequer brought you up in the car.” 

Benjie said, " Oh, not really — am I ? ” and was 
very sick on the spot. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY 

To have a person ill in your house is a responsibility. 
You wonder what will do him any good, beyond the 
doctor and the nurse and the medicine. The Creve- 
quers thought of puppies, soft baby ones in a basket, 
and brought them up tentatively and put them on a 
table a little away from Benjie’s sofa, where they 
could not be disturbing. Puppies in a basket are 
so nice to look at. Benjie looked at them gravely. 
One must like puppies, even when determined to 
like nothing in an immoral and revolting world. 
But if the puppies belong to people you disapprove 
of, you look gravely at them. The Crevequers 
perceived this, and thought rabbits might be better, 
being quieter. So a pair of rabbits came up in a 
hutch. Benjie begged his hosts not to bother about 
him ; he said, lying, that he did not care for animals. 
The question then was, what did he care for ? Books, 
no doubt; but he was in no state to read much. 
“We might read to him,” said the Crevequers, 
and asked the nurse about this. The nurse thought 
that would be very nice. So they told Benjie what 

248 


THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY 249 

books there were in the house, and asked him if 
he liked any of them. Benjie said he didn’t ; 
he was lying again, badly, for there were some 
Jacobses. 

“ We don’t stammer much when we read,” said 
the Crevequers, a little wistfully. 

Benjie said, “ You are very kind. But I really 
am quite happy doing nothing at all.” 

“ He doesn't like us,” said the Crevequers to each 
other, downstairs, and their eyes were melancholy 
at suspicion thus confirmed. 

“ Economic ruin of the countryside. Political 
bribery and corruption. The fostering of a p-pauper 
class. Reckless and undis-discriminating liberality. 
L-ludicrously disproportionate hospitality. En- 
couragement of the dregs of our vagrant population. 
An immoral premium on loafing,” they quoted to 
each other, recalling fragments of Benjie’s public 
orations, to one of which they had listened with 
extreme interest. Only to one ; after that they had 
thought it more tactful to absent themselves. They 
had thought it would be so dreadful for Benjie if he 
saw them there. 

" Well,” said Betty, with melancholy regret, 
" obviously he meant it all.” 

” It’s a pity,” said Tommy, " when we like him 
so much. But we won’t bother him. We won't 
make ourselves n-nuisances, Betty. It’s so cheap. 
I feel rather mortified. I would liked to have played 
my banjo to him, but I won't. Besides, it might 
make his head ache.” 


250 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ His mother is coming to amuse him this after- 
noon, you know. No, his aunt now, isn’t she. That 
is nice for him, to have become a common man, 
isn’t it. Just what he would love most. I expect 
his wife is frightfully pleased too. I wonder if she’d 
like to come and nurse him ? Let’s ask her to stay, 
Tommy. Let’s ask his father, too. And all his 
family. That would be rather nice, and might 
amuse him.” 

The amusement of Benjie weighed on their minds, 
since puppies, rabbits, books, the banjo, and Creve- 
quer conversation had so signally failed. So Betty 
sat down to write several notes of invitation. 

Lady Lettice motored over that afternoon, how- 
ever, and said that Mrs. Benjie and the man Prittie 
had better not be asked to come, as it was most 
important that Benjie should forget the very absurd 
plan he had made for a combined household. 

“ My dears, the commonest of men ! And drinks, 
you know, and idles isn’t the word ! It’s ridiculous 
of Benjie to think he can ever improve him, because 
he can’t. He’s an unimprovable. And if Benjie went 
to church and read the psalms, he would know that 
he must let that alone for ever.” 

The Crevequers had never thought much about 
it, but they probably agreed with her and the 
psalmist. Betty said, “ But perhaps he likes his 
father as he is,” and Lady Lettice threw up her 
hands in negation. 

" Oh, my dear, you don’t know Benjie in the least 
if you think that ! He doesn’t like people for what 


THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY 


251 


they are, but for what he wants to make them. And 
of all things in the world he hates loafers and wastrels. 
So right, isn’t he. As my husband says, you know 
(I daresay you’ve heard him) our workers are the 
fibre of our Imperial Tree. Benjie thinks so too, 
only he’d never put it like that, because the Empire 
is nothing to him at all, silly boy. But he does hate 
idlers dreadfully.” 

The Crevequers knew that, of course. So the man 
Prittie was not asked to stay ; nor was Louie. Lady 
Lettice was, but was recommended by the doctor 
and nurse to make daily visits instead ; it was only 
half an hour’s run in the motor, and, as Lady Lettice 
observed, of course there was a lot to do at home in 
election time. (The elections took place about now, 
by the way, and Mr. Bunter, in company with many 
other people, got in — a fact which is only recorded 
here because it put an extra degree of chill into 
Benjie’s attitude towards his hosts, and really it 
could hardly bear much lowering of temperature.) 

“ He thinks it’s our fault,” said the Crevequers 
to each other. “ But it’s not. We hardly did any 
canvassing at all. And we had people to sleep and 
to meals because they liked it, not because we wanted 
them to vote Conservative. And I believe he thinks 
that’s as bad, or worse. Why ? ” They couldn't 
understand Benjie ; it was no use trying. Only one 
thing they understood — that they liked him and he 
didn’t like them. That is really enough compre- 
hension to base a relationship upon. They based 
it thereon rather mournfully, and kept in the 


252 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


background, while his friends and relatives kept him 
company. 

When the Easter vacation began, Cecil came. 
She was thin and eager, with wide bright eyes. For 
the first time Benjie wondered whether Cecil perhaps 
lived too hard, too intensely, was too continuously 
strung up to great purposes. The purpose at the 
moment was the redemption of Harry. Friendship 
with Harry was something of a strain, Benjie 
gathered ; but Cecil was altogether too large-minded 
and too much in earnest to be daunted by difficulty ; 
it rather increased her intention. With immense 
magnanimity she had deliberately put behind her 
the personal mortification caused by one memorable 
interview. One must make allowances for the 
warped vision of the unfortunate. Cecil was really 
not untrue to her principles, and did so. 

“ It’s like nothing else I’ve ever had to do with," 
she told Benjie. “ Getting hold of his point of view 
is so frightfully overwhelming. He’s all raw, and 
hurt, and prickly, because life has used him as a 
football. ... I all but chucked the Fabians the 
other day, because it seems to me one must go so 
much quicker than that if anything is to be done. But 
I didn’t. I think one’s got to keep in and do one’s 
best. ... I wanted to have Harry to stay, but I 
wasn’t let. Besides, he’d hate it really, all the hum- 
bug and fuss. But when next we go in the van, 
Benjie, couldn’t we take him too ? ” Then she 
remembered Benjie’s new menage. She approved 
of that. “ It’s a perfectly ripping experiment, 


THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY 


253 


Benjie. I’ll come and stay with you, shall I ? I 
do wonder if it’ll work. Of course the danger 
is that it may get antimacassary and wax-flowery — 
the respectable home of the honest poor man, you 
know. But if anyone can keep it out of that, you 
will. Louie’s a dear, and I’m sure she’s awfully 
teachable really. I practise a little judicious 
shocking from time to time, just to keep her in 
touch with disreputability. And your father — how 
funny that sounds ! — will help to do that, I expect. 
He must be rather a lamb, Benjie ; I’m awfully 
keen to meet him. Now you’re not going to try and 
spoil him by turning him into an honest working 
man, are you ? Oh, Benjie, don’t. We do want 
the disreputables in the colour-scheme. Not to use , 
you know, but just to look at. Like these darlings 
here. The mere vagabond, with no aim in life at all, 
is so awfully picturesque and taking. I believe I 
could be one myself, quite easily, if I didn’t feel 
what a fearful lot there is to be done. The problem 
is how to keep them — fit them in — and yet not be 
hampered by them.” 

Cecil wrinkled her forehead over it. There were 
so many problems in her difficult life. There are, 
if you are responsible for either the fitting in or the 
extermination of everyone you come across in an 
over-full world. It was probably this that made 
her so thin. 

When she had gone, Benjie felt rather tired. It 
came upon him suddenly that talk about plans and 
ideas and experiments and problems bored him a 


254 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


little. (Some day, perhaps, thought about them 
would bore him too, but he had not yet arrived 
there.) He suddenly felt a desire for puppies and 
rabbits. But he could not ask for them, because he 
did not want to be on good terms with their owners. 
The Crevequers, it seemed, had given him up now as 
a bad job ; they must have at last got some glimmer- 
ing of his opinion of them. When last he had seen 
Betty she had looked a little nervous, and stam- 
mered a good deal ; that was just after Mr. Bunter 
had got in. Benjie didn’t really mind Mr. Bunter 
getting in ; he wasn’t a bad-hearted youth, and didn’t 
seriously want his family to be disappointed, and 
besides, parliament seems the proper place for the 
Mr. Bunters of this world ; they could hardly do 
better. Party government seems created especially 
to “fit them in,” as Cecil would have said. But 
Benjie was angry with the Crevequers, all the same. 
He wanted desperately to be well and to get away. 
He wanted his van and the simple life again. He 
was of those who only breathe with ease in an austere 
air. Merrilies End was not austere. Its mingling 
of messiness and riotous extravagance oppressed 
him heavily ; Dives and Lazarus, each with his 
characteristic vices, met there in an affectionate 
embrace, cherishing each other. Benjie, of course, 
knew that neither Dives nor Lazarus had any right 
to exist, nor would, in a well-ordered state. They 
had to be exterminated ; but here each was nour- 
ishing the other’s pernicious life. 

There came a day when Benjie was able to walk 


THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY 355 

with little pain. So he said he was going. He did 
not say so to the doctor, who had just told him not to 
go yet ; that is the best way with doctors, not to 
defy but to ignore. Benjie, like other persons of 
sense, had long since learnt to manage doctors ; so 
he tied his scanty belongings in a bundle and came 
down stairs and looked about for the Crevequers. 
He gathered from Julia, a proud and aloof woman, 
that her master and mistress might be anywhere in 
the garden or yard, or out-buildings or down by the 
sea ; they had long since taken their “ breakfast 
rolls " (of the respectable egg-bacon-and-marmalade 
breakfast the Crevequers knew nothing) with them 
and gone out after a kitten. That sounded cryptic 
and vague ; the pursuit of a fleeing kitten, or the 
quest for a new kitten (either seemed equally likely) 
might lead one almost anywhere. Benjie wandered 
about for a little, then went to the stables and found 
Richard and the cart, and joined them together. 
He thought what a delightful face Richard had ; it 
always struck him freshly after absence. 

But there was to be little more of Richard, little 
more Of the cart ; in future, only occasional tours 
could be taken, for Benjie’s respectable and hard- 
working household was going to live in a model 
cottage. It was stupid of Cecil to talk about being 
antimacassary and wax-flowery ; there is no danger 
of that in a model cottage ; you are so aesthetic 
therein as to be almost vieux jeu, redolent of the 
tasteful ’nineties. You are surrounded with the joys 
of art and sanitation, and hand-made furniture, and 


256 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


fresh whitewash. Benjie had visions of himself and 
his father and Louie in sandals, having breakfast in 
the garden before they dispersed to their day’s 
labour, Louie to feed the hen (possibly the pig ; pigs, 
of course, are delightful animals when nicely kept, 
and so quiet that they will play with the children), 
and then to clean the already immaculate house and 
cook the simple food, and Benjie and his father 
either to the forge or the workshop ; they would 
have both going. Then, after a good morning’s 
work, back to the simple mid-day meal (brown bread 
and lettuce and marmalade for Benjie, and meat for 
those who liked it) again in the garden. Then they 
would all go out together somewhere — a country 
walk, to get flowers for the house. Then tea ; 
garden again, but round a good table ; none of your 
finicking cake-stand teas, that none of them liked, 
neither Benjie, nor Louie, nor the man Prettie. Then 
work again, anyhow for Benjie. His father, if tired 
of work (a possible contingency) could smoke a pipe 
in the garden, for an hour only. But probably he 
would be tremendously keen on getting on with some 
job ; Benjie himself could usually hardly drag him- 
self away from his workshop for food and recrea- 
tion. They would have supper about eight, and then 
be sociable for the rest of the evening, either alone 
or with friends. Village life should be a community 
life, Benjie felt ; they would meet for discussion and 
debates and conversation, or play billiards at the 
Institute. Not the public house ; that was a social 
centre Benjie disapproved of ; he would make it so 


THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY 257 

pleasant for his father elsewhere that he would not 
desire that. 

They would be a very respectable family ; they 
would raise the working classes in the estimation of 
all around them ; they would show what a good 
artisan household could be ; they would look the 
whole world in the face for they would owe not any 
man. They would go to bed at ten, in order to 
rise up at six and put in two hours’ work before 
breakfast. A good, honest, simple diligent life ; a 
life to be satisfied with. A life very different from 
the lives led by some people. 

However, it is impolite not to say good-bye, so 
Benjie, having made his preparations for departure, 
set out again on a search for his host and hostess. 
He found them this time. They seemed to have 
either secured or abandoned the kitten, for they were 
now on the sea-saw at the bottom of the garden. 
He tracked them by their voices, raised in stam- 
mering argument. Considering how much they were 
two minds with but a single thought, it always 
surprised Benjie to find how much and how ardently 
they disputed. 

He came up to them and said, “ I have been look- 
ing for you to say good-bye. I am going. It has 
been very good of you to take me in like this. I am 
awfully sorry to have given you so much trouble, 
Good-bye.” 

They slid off the sea-saw ; they protested. “ But 
you aren’t well yet. You can’t. You can’t walk 
properly yet. The doctor didn’t say you might. 

s 


258 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Lady Lettice didn’t say you might. You must stay 
a little longer.” 

Benjie said, “ I am well, thank you very much. I 
can walk quite well. The doctor knows very little 
about such things. Lady Lettice knows less. I 
have a great deal to do, and must set about doing it ; 
I have wasted so much time already. I must see 
about my house. I am now going to live in a house 
with my wife and father, as perhaps you know. 
Thank you very much, and good-bye.” 

He held out his hand, and they had to take it in 
turn. They followed him, helplessly protesting, to 
the stables, and watched him start. He thought 
what great melancholy eyes they both had ; eyes, 
incongruous with the rest of them. Only the melan- 
choly note was also somewhere in their soft, stam- 
mering voices, underneath, giving a touch of pathos 
to the incredibly foolish nonsense they talked. 

He whipped up Richard and drove away. At 
the gate into the road he turned and looked back, 
and they were still standing there, and it seemed to 
him that they were, for once, silent. 

It was noon at the end of April, and there were 
violets in the ditches, and green buds on the hedges, 
and a merry south wind on the road, and orchards 
blowing pink and white by the way, and cuckoos 
shouting from every tree, above the rapture of the 
little birds ; and geese and golden goslings on the 
green. To exchange Richard and the vagrant life 
for a model cottage so fast that it cannot be moved, 
seemed melancholy just then ; but it was for the best. 


THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY 259 

The craving for motion, for perpetual variety, is 
unwholesome, Benjie knew. In fact, he had never 
for a moment yielded to that ; he had fared forth as 
a pilgrim on a mission, not as a vagrant on the 
spree. And now his mission led him home again, 
and wherever it led he followed it, being a 
faithful missionary. And the family life in the 
model cottage would be a life worthy of his best 
endeavours. 

He was bound for Wattles now, to prepare his 
future home. But first he turned north, to pay his 
family a visit before he departed. He found them 
having a tennis party. These things will happen, 
though when one has a lame leg they are an un- 
mitigated bore. However, there is always tea. 
Benjie sat on a rug in the shade and had some, and 
talked to those of his relatives w ho could spare time 
for him. Cecil spared most. Cecil was rather super- 
cilious about tennis parties, and the people who came 
to them. She considered them stodgy, and wanted 
to shock them. People who live in the country are 
generally admitted by the enlightened to be un- 
interesting ; it must be the effect of the air. Jerry 
said, “ What does it matter ? They don’t hurt us,” but 
Cecil said, “ They’ve no business to be like that,” and 
tried to cure them. She wanted to introduce 
Harry among them to that end ; Harry was by 
way of being an explosive, as Bob Traherne said 
the Church was. 

But when Benjie arrived, Cecil stopped trying to 
startle people, and talked to him. She said, “ I’ll 


26 o 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


come over on Sunday and help to arrange the cottage, 
shall I ? Term begins on Saturday, you know. 
You’ve got lots of drawings left over that weren’t 
sold, haven’t you ? Let me come and help to put them 
up. Louie will like them sometime, you know, even 
if she doesn’t yet. So will Harry. I’ve been 
teaching Harry to like a lot of things.” 

Lady Lettice murmured, plaintively and ab- 
stractedly, to Mrs. Venables, who was calling, 
“ Dear Cecil, she’s so interested in that rough young 
man. If everyone didn’t say he was at death’s door 
(yes, so sad, isn’t it,) I should really have to interfere. 
One has to let young people go their own way in these 
days, but I don’t think Cecil realises enough that 
a young man is a young man, even though a 
bricklayer, and that sort of unfortunate crea- 
ture is so terribly likely to have ideas above his 
station.” 

“ Surely,” said Mrs. Venables, in her intelligent 
voice, " one has got a little beyond all that in these 
days of fellowship and widening outlook. I should 
say that the experiment will do both Cecil and the 
young man nothing but good.” 

“ So relieved you think so,” murmured Lady 
Lettice. " But you wouldn’t say I ought to have 
him to stay, would you ? ” 

" Why yes, by all means. A most instructive 
experiment. His sister, poor simple girl, interested 
me quite enormously, and I have no doubt he would 
be as interesting a type.” 

“ Oh, my dear, I believe he’s a dreadful creature, 


THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY 261 


from Cecil’s accounts. She’s absorbed in him, of 
course, and talks of him day and night, so I feel I 
know him well. A Socialist, you know. Mervyn 
can’t bear them ; he calls them the Red Peril, and 
says they are a disgrace to their king and flag. 
Mervyn’s such a patriot always. And I feel myself 
that Socialism should be left to the upper classes. 
It’s a pity in them — look at Benjie and Cecil, and 
my nephew Bob, and all these young people — but in 
the poor it’s quite insupportable — makes them so 
ill-mannered, doesn’t it. You know, I couldn’t have 
him in the house ; the servants wouldn’t like it at all, 
and I’ve absolutely no reason to think he is even 
clean.” 

Mrs. Venables knew of old that Lettice was not 
really wide-minded, though of a certain specious 
superficial tolerance, so she did not remonstrate. 

Benjie rose to go. Mrs. Venables thought he 
carried his new status rather well ; not defiantly, 
but with a grave simplicity touched with a little 
conscious pride of birth. It is a fine thing to become 
suddenly and without effort what you have been 
struggling to make yourself for years. If Benjie’s 
head was a little turned by it, as Hugh considered 
that it was, one cannot greatly blame him. 

Hugh and Jerry saw him into his van, and watched 
him drive off. 

“ It’s a great pity,” said Jerry, placidly, as they 
returned to play tennis, “that he is making this 
mistake again. One hoped he had done with it and 
turned over a new leaf. It is bad luck about his 


262 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


father. He is a nice person ; I liked him very much 
when I met him ; but he seems to be having the very 
worst effect on Benjie, and making him more didactic 
and improving than ever. I don't believe that 
Benjie will make his father happy, or Louie 
either." 

“ His object is to make them refined and good," 
said Hugh. “ Happiness is a minor consideration." 

“ It's a pity," Jerry repeated. “ Mr. Prittie is 
really quite extraordinarily likeable, I should think, 
but Benjie and he will probably annoy each other 
dreadfully. Benjie is being stupid. It was stupid 
of him to marry, and it is stupider of him to take it 
up again now, and stupidest of all to think he can 
make them like baths and pictures and things. 
What can it matter what other people like ? Shall 
Miss Egerton and I play you and Cecil a return ? 
No, I am not going to play with Hilda Wemyss 
again ; she screams too loud, and told me she heard 
I was ‘ doing so well at the 'Varsity.' It was a 
hideous lie, for one thing, though that of course was 
its least fault. I'm glad I don’t get angry, like Cecil, 
when people say those things ; it must be so ex- 
hausting for her. She and Benjie both take life so 
hard, don’t they ? . . . Seriously, I wish someone 
would put a stop to that ’Arry business. It's getting 
a nuisance. I don’t think 'Arry has a nice mind, or 
face. Miss Egerton, will you come and play with me 
against Cecil and Hugh ? ” 

Benjie and Richard, ambling back along the road 
they had come by, were swallowed up in dusk. A 


THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY 263 


mile from Merrilies End they stopped for the night 
and supped, and disposed themselves to slumber. 
It was a black, moonless night. Benjie lay and 
looked out through his open van door, wide-eyed, 
hearing Richard munch and chew and sigh. 


CHAPTER XIV 


ASHES ON THE WINDS 

About midnight the moonless cup of darkness into 
which Benjie stared was lit by a glare. The glare 
was of flames, a mile away ; it seemed that there was 
a bonfire somewhere. The horizon flushed and 
glowed as if a red dawn was breaking. 

“ Oh Richard/' said Benjie, throwing on his 
clothes, “ we must go and see." 

Richard did not particularly want to go and see ; 
but Benjie must have his way, so Richard let him- 
self be put into his harness and attached to his cart, 
and once more they took the dark road, and still in 
front of them the night was cleft by that fiery dawn. 

They entered a stirring, clamouring village. 
Benjie drove Richard into an inn yard, and pushed 
his way on foot, lamely, up the village street. 

“ Have they got the engine there ? ” he asked, 
and was told, “ Can’t get Here for hours : there’s 
none nearer than Marie, and that’s away for the night 
at Horsey. The house'll be past Spraying for, the 
time the engine comes. Why, it's done for now ; a 
mass of flame it is, from roof to cellar. They spread 
rapid, fires do." 


264. 


ASHES ON THE WINDS 


265 


All round they were saying, “ Ain’t that a pity, 
now. The beautiful house. And so kind as they’ve 
always been to everyone ; I’m sure there’s a many 
as’ll be sorry . . . Where are the lady and gentle- 
man ? It’s to be hoped they’re safe ; it would be a 
dreadful fate, to be sure, if they was to be im- 
prisoned in the house and not get out. But they say 
there were lots of time for everyone to escape. It’s 
to be hoped they’re not attempting to rescue any 
belongings out of the wreck, which they can’t safely 
do, and had better let alone. Now don’t that seem 
a shame — a fine ’ouse like that. We can’t none of us 
tell when we’re safe, can we, and the Lord’s ways ain’t 
our ways. Look at the sparks, Georgie. My, don’t 
they fly.” 

Georgie was pushed aside by a pale, staring-eyed 
young man, who shouldered his way up the street to 
gates guarded by a policeman. The policeman said, 
" No further, please.” Benjie stared at him, and 
said, “ I suppose no one’s in the house ? ” 

" It’s to be ’oped not,” returned the policeman. 
“ If so, they won’t come out of it now.” 

" Where are they ? ” 

" Who ? . . . Keep back, there ; we don’t want 
none of you beyond this gate.” 

“ Where are Mr. and" Miss Crevequer ? ” 

“ Prob’ly somewhere in the garden or yards. I’ve 
not been up nearer than this. There are the servants 
coming this way, if you want to speak to them.” Benjie 
perceived Julia and Mr. Giles, in coat-covered des- 
habille standing on the drive. He called out to them. 


266 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


" Where are they ? Are you all out of the house ? " 

Julia turned a pale face to him, modestly wrapping 
her waterproof cloak closer about her. 

" Yes, sir. We are all out of the house. But I 
haven't seen Mr. and Miss Crevequer anywhere, nor 
has Mr. Giles. We can't help being afraid that they 
stayed in, or ran in again, to save some of the animals. 
You know, sir, they had squirrels and kittens and I 
don’t know what all loose about the house, and they 
might try to rescue them." 

"You don't know whether they’re out of the house 
or not ? " said Benjie, and pushed the policeman 
violently aside, and swarmed over the gate, and ran 
hobbling up the garden and into the circle of the hot, 
intolerable glare. Another policeman stood as near 
the house as a man could stand unscorched. 

He said, " Go back. You can't come any nearer ; 
it’s unsafe. And there's no good to be done, for 
everything in that house is burnt to matchwood by 
now." 

Benjie made no answer. He plunged his head and 
shoulders into the fountain tank, startling the gold- 
fish, and rose with his hair dripping into his eyes. 
He pushed past the policeman and was at the open 
door. Beyond it was the terrible raging and crack- 
ling and storming of the flames. Coming into the hall, 
Benjie seemed to stand on an island in a fiery sea. 
There were no stairs, only a spiral blaze. From above 
the smoke poured down, dense, choking, horrible. 
There was no way up. Ceilings and walls were crack- 
ling, yielding, falling. 


ASHES ON THE WINDS 


267 


Benjie stood for a moment blind and reeling. 
There was nothing for him to do here ; there could 
be no life left above those stairs that were no stairs. 
Only, “ If they have died, I had better die too, for 
what is left to live for ? ” he cried, aloud or within 
his soul, and one half of him would have kept him 
waiting there for the ruins to fall flaming about him, 
and so make an end. But the flesh is strong, and 
bodily instinct rent his impulse in two and sent him 
staggering and coughing and blind out at the door, 
his face buried in his wet sleeve. 

The policeman said, “ Are you mad ? I never 
thought to see you come out of that alive. Are you 
blinded ? Are you burnt ? You see now it’s hope- 
less, don't you ? We can do nothing at all for any- 
thing in there, or for any person either (God pity 
them) — if there is any person. Are you injured ? ” 

The young man, because he did not know and did 
not care, answered nothing, but reeled away down 
the garden. Still blind and weeping with smoke, still 
smothered and choking, he did not look where he 
went, but staggered on and on till he caught his foot 
in the root of a tree, and fell. Where he fell he lay, 
his head on his wet arms, shivering and sick and blind, 
in a great darkness that was like death, but shot 
through and through with pain. He did not know 
that one hand and arm was scorched and black from 
finger-tips to elbow ; but he knew that pain throbbed 
and shuddered in his soul and body, a dreadful living 
thing. 

He knew that the flames had taken and burnt up 


268 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


what he loved best in all the world, in any worlds 
that there might be. How he had hated every 
principle, every lack of principle, that those whom he 
so loved had stood for, and how much stronger a 
thing is love than hate ! What are principles ? Dust 
scattered by the puffing of a wind to the four quarters 
of the heavens ; straw, burnt by the touch of flame, 
and their place knows them no more. There shall 
be no more principles, and no more sea. " Oh, 
you’ll see in the end,” came the echo of Bob’s voice 
by the sea that had so brief a course to run — “ how 
everything drops away, and decays and dies, and only 
people remain, immortal and unquenchable, the 
source of all the new life that is to be . . . People, 
people, people — there isn’t anything else, in heaven 
or earth.” 

No, nothing else. Heaven and earth may roll up 
like a flaming scroll, and it does not matter. Only 
if their collapse should catch and crush living people 
— people one loves — that matters, and that only. 

“ Oh God, oh God,” Benjie muttered, his forehead 
pressed on damp mould, “ did they have pain like 
this to bear ? Oh my God, not like this ! ” 

He, who never prayed, and who believed in no 
God, prayed the useless backward prayer again and 
again, as his own pain shook him. “ Oh God, oh 
God, not like this ! ” 

He would never know. And they would never 
know how he lay thus and shuddered and prayed. 
Between them and him it was over. 

They had thought to the end — or had they been 


ASHES ON THE WINDS 


269 

wiser ? — that he had hated them, because, caring so 
much, he had feared to care ; because, so dearly 
cherishing his code of ethics, he had dreaded and 
shunned its enemies. 

Had they been wise and known ? Known of the 
warfare that had rent him better than he had known 
it himself ? For they were like wise children, who 
know and accept, condemning nothing, tolerating all. 

And now they had won utterly. Nothing remained 
against them ; the terrible flames had burnt away 
everything in heaven and earth. Not a theory, not 
a belief, not a shred of a principle or desire, but had 
been burnt in that fire like straw, and scattered like 
ashes on the four winds. Nothing remained ; not 
even people, because they too were burnt and scat- 
tered ; nothing but black emptiness and in the heart 
of it a living pain and an anguished cry for pity on 
those whose need for it was past. 

Heavy with that travail, the black, timeless hours 
climbed on, till they came to the edge where darkness 
glimmers and fades, and it was as if veil after veil 
was lightly lifted, till the black was grey and pale. 
Benjie, the pain and the cry in him stilled by numb 
exhaustion, looked out from his place of trees and 
shadows, and saw between dark trunks the colourless 
sea spreading palely to the unborn dawn. 

He knew then that he was in the little wood at the 
garden’s foot. He was glad that he was there, out 
of sight of the red terror that would now be a hissing, 
smouldering ruin (unnoticingly, remotely, he had 
heard the fire-engines at last at their useless work in 


270 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


the dark small hours). In this shadowed, shut-in 
hollow he could see only the cold sweetness of the 
April dawn elucidating the sea’s quiet mystery, till 
its dim twilight blue glinted gold ; and out of the 
opened golden gates there came a wind blowing, and 
before it fled the homing fishing-boats, whose white 
sails took the morning. There was something 
flutteringly, ecstatically happy about the dancing 
boats ; they seemed to lilt to the rapture and the 
piercing sweetness of the morning songs that filled 
the quiet dawn spaces with their clamour ; one might 
have fancied the white-winged voyagers singing sea- 
birds themselves, so indescribably merry were they. 
They seemed to call heaven and earth to witness that 
April was yet on the land, and birds and flowers and 
laughter, and the morning, unslain of death, unburnt 
of fire — or, if burnt, rising phoenix-like from ashes, 
with a song. 

And thus they, who had loved laughter and April, 
would have had it, that their perishing should leave 
these things untouched ; that morning should come 
again with its path of flowers and gaiety, walking 
goldenly over a glinting blue sea. The morning 
cried aloud of them. The pale light, creeping now 
into the hollows of the little wood, illustrated the 
shadows there, showing this one an empty, still 
swing, that a slung hammock, this other a crazy 
sea-saw, one end resting on a glimmering clump of 
primroses. The yellow of primroses gleamed out 
furtively from every little hollow, luminously 
innocent, wide-eyed to the joy of day. 


ASHES ON THE WINDS 


271 


Benjie heard a little nibbling noise close to him 
and beheld two errant guinea-pigs eating primroses 
at his side, undisturbed by the strangeness of the 
night’s events. Touching one with his unhurt hand, 
he seemed to hear again a stammering offer — 
“ W-would you like a guinea-pig ? ” and a curt 
reply, “No, thanks.” 

That again was as they would have had it, that 
guinea-pigs and primroses should remain, merry and 
undisturbed. Passing from the earth’s face, they had 
left it smiling after them, as if they had bequeathed 
their infectious mirth for a legacy. Benjie was not 
of those who believe in the individual persistence of 
human life through its physical dissolution ; but 
surely some sort of persistence was here ; surely 
death, dissolving individual isolation, made one a 
part of all ; surely ashes were blown by the dawn 
wind, and scattered at large, to be gathered into the 
very fabric of the universe. 

And because they seemed to have left that legacy 
behind them, Benjie, with the primroses and the 
guinea-pigs, and the April morning, tried to smile, 
tried to be one with them to that extent ; but he 
could not, so wrenched with anguish in a forsaken 
world was he ; so he closed his eyes on hard, forcing 
tears, and lay very still, and the guinea-pigs nibbled at 
his side, and the morning brightened over land and sea. 
* * * * * 

As in a dream he heard them speaking not far off. 

“ L-look ; there are Benjie and Louie. Benjie, 
Benjie, Louie, come along ! ” 


272 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Opening his eyes he saw them, coaxing the guinea- 
pigs, and supposed that he slept and dreamed, and 
he would have risen and gone to them, but, as in 
dreams, his limbs were heavy and would not move, 
so he lay still and stared. 

Then they turned and saw him. They said, 
“ Oh, Benjie, are you here, too ? We’re collecting 
the animals.” 

He said “ Hullo,” gruffly, and smiled up at them, 
his old abrupt smile, that came queerly on his white, 
drawn face. All words drove under in him ; he 
waited dizzily for them to speak. That, of course, 
they did. 

“ Oh, Benjie, it’s all gone — burnt.” 

“ We’ve been out on the sea all night ; we’re only 
just back, and we missed the fire. Was it ex- 
citing ? ” 

“ Oh, you smell of smoke. Oh, he’s burnt ! Oh, 
Benjie, you didn’t go inside, did you ? ” 

“ Is it bad ? Does it hurt awfully ? ” 

“ L-let me look.” 

Betty had his arm gently between her hands ; her 
eyes were wide and dark in her pale face. 

Benjie whitened at the touch. If they touched 
him, they must really be here, then. 

“ It’s all right, thanks,” he said, gruffly. “ No, it 
doesn’t hurt much just now. Never mind it . . . 
All night, you know, I’ve thought you were in there 
^ — in the house.” 

“ Oh ! We should be gonners, shouldn’t we, if we 
had. Everything’s gone — burnt to bits ; must be, 


ASHES ON THE WINDS 


273 


the bobby says . . . No, we got up in the middle of 
the night and went on the sea, and missed it all. 
The only real fire we’ve ever had, and we missed it. 
Wasn’t it bad luck ? ” 

“ All gone,” repeated Betty, mournfully. “ Every 
single thing.” 

They looked out of the shadowy hollow between 
tree-stems into the strange, clear morning ; looked 
towards the hot, charred ruin they could not see ; 
and Benjie looked at them, as they sat beside him, 
each with a guinea-pig upon their knees. 

“ Yes, it’s all gone, I suppose,” he agreed, and 
smiled faintly again, with very bright blue eyes in a 
wan face ; “all but you.” 

Heaven and earth had rolled up like a flaming 
scroll, but people had endured, as Bob had said, the 
source of the new life that was to be. So he said 
“ all but you,” and smiled, content, and the morning 
sunlight pierced its way between the trees and 
laughed upon them as they sat there, waiting for the 
new life to begin. 


T 


CHAPTER XV 


THE NEW LIFE 

After a time Betty said, “ Now you’re to come to the 
doctor and have your arm seen to.” 

“And what after that?” asked Benjie, content 
to leave it to them. 

“ Oh, after that — why, we’ll think of that later,” 
and he was reproved, not having yet learnt wholly 
their episodic way with life. 

" Well,” he said, “ shall we all have breakfast 
together in my cart ? You see, there’s nowhere else 
you can have breakfast, is there ? So please let’s.” 
They agreed to that ; they never refused any hos- 
pitality. So they all three came out of the wood and 
through the garden that was grey with blown ashes 
and dew. 

“ It looks funny, doesn’t it,” said Tommy, of 
what had been the house. " It’s still too hot to go 
inside, but later we’ll explore. I expect it’s rather 
interesting inside.” 

Benjie knew it would be interesting, later, to 
explore a burnt house. But now he felt giddy and 
sick, and his arm hurt, and he thought only of how 
far it was to the doctor’s house. 


274 


THE NEW LIFE 


275 


Two hours later they were all making a good break- 
fast in the van, as it stood in the Crevequers’ garden 
— bacon, and tea, and bread, and raspberry jam. 
Benjie had his arm in a sling, and bandaged up with 
whatever unguent soothes the pain when one is burnt. 
The Crevequers cut up his bread for him, and spread 
it with jam. He told them where to find everything, 
and discovered that they were rather handy — much 
handier than Cecil. He speculated, as he watched 
them frying bacon, on their past career. 

From that they turned together to speculations on 
the future, though that was a period with which the 
Crevequers were not wont to trouble themselves 
overmuch, being children of to-day. 

“ You remember, Tommy,” said Betty, becoming 
meditatively wistful over departed glories, " when 
Father Estcourt said once that we couldn’t keep it. 
I had a feeling then that he was somehow right, 
that it wasn’t meant for us to have always.” 

“ I call it sickening,” said Tommy, taking more 
jam ; “ our beautiful house. And we not even there 
to see.” 

" Well,” said Betty, " now it’s gone ; and we’re 
as we were before. Worse, because we owe a most 
awful lot of money. You know,” she added to 
Benjie, “ we couldn’t have gone on living in it, any- 
how, because we’ve spent all our money — more than 
all, really.” 

" We meant to let it or sell it, or something, and 
raise some money that way to go on with. But now 
we can’t. We’re absolutely broke.” 


276 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ It was extraordinary how our money went,” 
Betty mused. " I can’t think where it all went to. 
Of course we did spend a lot — but then we had a lot 
to spend, and it didn’t seem to matter.” 

” You probably think the house was insured,” 
said Tommy, aggrievedly. (Benjie had thought no 
such thing.) “ But it wasn't. Because we didn’t 
think it would be burnt. It didn’t look as if it could 
burn. I suppose some fool dropped a match some- 
where. Probably Betty.” 

“ Your motor should fetch something,” Benjie 
suggested ; but they looked at him sadly. 

” We sold it a week ago. We were getting so hard- 
up, you see. We’ve sold the Marchesina too, really ; 
that was why we went in her to-night , for the last time. ’ ’ 
" We’ve spent the price we got for her already, 
paying people who wanted their money at once. I 
wonder how much we owe, and can never pay now. 
We haven’t the least idea. I do hate not paying 
people ; it’s so horribly disappointing for them. 
But wh-what can we do ? ” 

“ That is what I was going to ask you. What shall 
you do ? Take to the roads again ? ” 

“ Oh, I expect so. Something will turn up ; it 
always does. And I suppose we can sell the garden 
for something . . . We’re used to not having money, 
you know ; we don’t really mind much. Only it has 
been fun, being rich. I wonder if we really did all 
we might have done with it.” Their eyes became 
wistfully retrospective. Then Betty gave Benjie a 
shamed glance ; she had forgotten for the moment 


THE NEW LIFE 


2 77 


what he thought and had publicly said about their 
modes of expenditure. She half expected a diatribe 
now, and when nothing came from him but his smile, 
she was relieved, but a touch perplexed. What had 
happened to Benjie in the night, to give him this new, 
smiling serenity, this wide, moral-less charity ? ” 

“ I was going to say,” said Benjie, “ if you’re 
vagabonds at large, so am I, you know. Shall we 
join forces for a bit ? Will you come with me and 
Richard in the van, till something else turns up ? ” 

They looked at him, half puzzled, but each with a 
single deepening dimple (they had only one apiece) 
betraying pleasure. 

“ It would be frightfully amusing,” they said. 
” We should love it.” Betty added, " But we didn’t 
know you were going on in the van. We thought you 
were going to live somewhere — in a house, you know 
— with your father and your wife.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Benjie, serenely sure of that. “ I’m 
not. That was a foolish plan, and would have 
pleased no one.” 

They hesitated, still puzzled ; they didn’t quite 
understand him. 

He explained a little further, groping back after 
the old burnt ideas that were now so remote from him 
that it was to himself rather than to them that he 
tried to explain them. 

" I had an idea — I don’t know what I thought, 
exactly, but I was an ass, anyhow — a sort of idea of 
it being a good plan, and all that, and the way one 
ought to live. I was a lunatic. I’ve stopped being 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


278 

a lunatic now. That’s all. I know now that people 
ought to live in the way they like.” 

There was a little pause. The Crevequers prob- 
ably knew nothing about it either way ; they never 
did know that sort of thing, as Benjie did. They 
only knew from moment to moment what they desired 
and intended to do. 

After a moment Betty asked, “ And will they like 
us being in the van too ? And will there be room ? ” 

Benjie frowned a little. “ They ? Oh, they — I 
see. No, there wouldn’t be nearly room. But they 
won’t be here, you see. They wouldn’t care about it.” 
Again there was a little silence. The Crevequers 
were not entirely sure what to make of this. 

“ In any case,” said Benjie, calmly, “ and whether 
you come with me or not, I shall not live with them. 
You see, they wouldn’t care about it ; it was my plan, 
and it was going to be very boring for them. I was 
going to try and improve their taste, and all that 
sort of thing. I wasn’t going to let them live as they 
liked, a bit ; it was all to be my show. Well, 
that’s all done with. I see I was a conceited ass.” 

The model family in the model cottage had perished 
indeed in the ravaging flames, and were scattered in 
fine ash. 

“ Couldn’t they come,” suggested Betty, tenta- 
tively, “ and just be happy with us, playing about?” 

“ We’re happiest,” he told her, “ each going our 
own way . . . Oh, you don’t understand about my 
marriage,” he said, being utterly frank now ; “it 
was merely a silly idea of mine for . . . well, I 


THE NEW LIFE 


279 


needn’t go into that, it’s too absurd ; but, as you 
know, Louie got tired of it and wanted to end it long 
ago ; she always had so much more sense than I had. 
I’ve been persuading her lately to have another try, 
and to help my father and me to make a household 
together ; but I see now that she was right and that 
it can’t be done. I’ve chucked it all now : it's 
gone.” His hand indicated the scattering of ashes 
to the winds. “ In future we shall be good friends, 
and go our separate ways. If you won’t come with 
me I shall be alone, and shall have no one to cut up 
my bread for me while my hand is bad.” 

“ Oh, but we will ; we w-will come,” they cried, 
stammering in their eagerness. “ We would love to. 
Wh-what fun ! ” 

Having achieved his point and finished his break- 
fast, Benjie lay back rather tired. It is exhausting 
to have your future career, your principles, your 
theories and your arm, all burnt together in one 
night — not to mention all that you think is burnt 
and find is not. So Benjie lay back in silence, but 
his eyes were bright in his pale face, and the spring 
wind danced in through the open door and breathed 
of April journeyings, and pink and white apple-trees 
fluttered and blew, and in them the carolling birds 
seemed to take up the Crevequers’ motto in chorus — 
“ What fun, what fun, wh-what fun ! ” 

“ Well,” said Tommy, presently, “ I think we must 
now go and look at the house, and talk to the bobby, 
and feed the animals, and do all the things one does 
do when one’s house has been burnt down.” 


28 o 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ And soothe the servants,” said Betty. " They’re 
scattered like a c-crowd of frightened sheep. Well, 
they’d have had to go directly in any case, because 
we couldn’t afford them, so they haven’t lost much, 
except their clothes and things. Tommy, whatever 
we can’t afford to do, we must pay them their wages. 
I simply daren’t face them and tell them we can’t.” 

Tommy gloomily jingled a few coins in his pockets. 

“ My dear Betty, we can’t afford luxuries like that 
now. We’re not made of money any more. The 
servants will have to take pot luck with the baker 
and everyone.” 

“ I’ve got plenty to spare just now,” Benjie put in, 
blushing a little, quite unnecessarily. 

They beamed at him. “ Really and truly ? Oh, 
if you could lend us just the wages — and perhaps the 
baker, because he’s such a nice, good man — we should 
be most awfully obliged. Are you sure you won’t 
miss it ? ” 

“ No, rather not.” Benjie was reassured ; they 
received as easily and happily as they bestowed. 

“ Hurrah. Come on, then ; we needn’t be afraid 
even of Julia now. Come and see if the house has 
cooled yet, and we’ll go and climb about it and see if 
there’s anything left. Do you think the baths are 
melted away ? ” 

“ Oh,” Betty gave a little scream. “ The crabs, 
Tommy ! We left your bath full of them, swimming 
in sea-water. Oh, do you think the water will have 
saved them, or will the fire have dried it up ? The 
poor darlings ! ” 


THE NEW LIFE 


281 


" Well, it can’t be helped now,” Tommy said 
philosophically. “ You should have thought of 
them before you dropped that match. However, we 
will come and discover the worst.” 

They all three went together to do so. A burnt 
house is extremely interesting. Never having per- 
sonally inspected one, I cannot attempt to describe 
it, or even to pronounce on the fate of the crabs or 
the baths ; it would be foolish to be recklessly in- 
accurate in these matters, for no doubt there are 
those who know. But anyhow it was interesting. It 
took them all day, and when they were hungry they 
went to the van for meals. They wandered to and 
fro between the van and the dead house, conveying 
various charred and smoky objects that the flames 
had not been able to consume, and that it seemed a 
pity to leave. The Crevequers, though they held their 
posesssions lightly and loosely, loved them ; they 
would seem to have the secret of the gayer saints, 
who love and laugh, and lose and laugh the more. 
This Benjie thought of them, having helped them 
through the day to grope among ashes for treasure, 
and heard them greet each find with joyful surprise. 
That was typical of them ; that was the way they 
took life, greeting each event with joyful welcome. 
Wasn't that the way to live — to take what arrives 
and be thankful, to lose all and yet never lose all, 
because, having nothing, one yet possesses all 
things ? Life to these was no empty vessel to be 
filled with wine, but the very wine itself, spilling over 
with beauty and delight. They did not, like Hugh 


282 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


and many others, demand that good things should be 
put into their hands ; they were craftsmen, and made 
their own good things, by sheer delight in them. 

Benjie, kept awake by his arm in the night, 
becoming morbidly lucid, thought these things out. 
Within the van, behind two curtained corners, there 
was light, regular breathing, as of sleeping children. 
But Benjie, lying, as his custom was, outside, saw 
the stars and the spring night and the wide world 
that called, “ Come and know me. I am yours if 
you will have me.” So many long years — twenty- 
four and a half — he had wasted foolishly, trying to 
improve what he should have tried only to enjoy. 
For joy is the great thing ; he knew that now. If 
joy should fill the world, the kingdom of heaven 
would be come upon it in truth ; so let each do his 
part in that fulfilling, and make and take joy while 
he could, and strive no more against life, which was 
surely good enough. 

So beneath the shining of the April stars, and 
before the sudden chorus of the birds pierced the 
unborn morning, Benjie fell asleep, wrapped in a 
serene and smiling peace. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE LEGACY 

Louie came to them about two o’clock, when they 
were having dinner outside the van. She wore a 
black sailor hat and an old brown jacket, and carried 
a paper bag which had held biscuits and now held 
crumbs only, it being a pity to waste paper bags. 

She said, " I come by the eleven fifty from Wattles. 
I only hear this morning of the accident, and I come 
straight away. Ben, lad, you ought to be in bed ; 
oughn’t he now ? ” She appealed to the Crevequers, 
who said, “ Oh, bed,” vaguely, as it was not a place 
they ever thought much about, and it would seem 
great waste of time to be there while there was a 
burnt house to explore. 

“ I’m all right, Louie,” said Benjie, and smiled 
at her. What had this young woman with the paper 
bag ever had to do with him ? Nothing linked them 
now but a snapped chain ; they were both free. 

She shook her head doubtfully over him. 

“ You must rest, Ben. I'm going to take you 
right away home with me to lie easy, till we can 
settle in that little house.” (Louie never called it 
a cottage.) “You look proper ill, my dear.” 

283 


284 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Now that they were of the same class, she could 
more easily call him that ; the words slipped off her 
tongue without embarrassment ; she was conscious 
only of her lad’s pale face and shadowed eye-sockets. 
She felt so much older than these three babes pic- 
nicking on the grass. What infants for Ben to be 
left in the care of, with his injured arm, and he only 
just out of an illness too. 

But Benjie said tranquilly, " No, Louie. I’m 
not going to lie up. I’m quite all right now, and I’m 
staying in the van. Have some food.” 

She showed him the bag of crumbs. 

” Sweet Maries. I finished them up in the train. 
I don’t want nothing further, thank you. . . . Ben, 
you really can’t stay on in this dreadful old van, 
and you looking so ill and all. It’s fair foolish. You 
must come home with me till that house is ready 
for us, you really must. Mustn’t he, now ? ” 

She appealed to Betty. Betty, looking from one 
to the other, said, " Yes. He m-must, of course,” 
simply, as if she had no doubts. Benjie stared at 
her. She didn’t know what she was talking about. 
He was just going to tell Louie that the little house 
would never be ready for them, nor they for the 
little house, but Louie to-day was newly loquacious. 
She talked on, and her brown eyes shone unusually. 

“ I want you to come and look at a little house 
in the new row they’re building — Virginia Terrace, 
they call the row — you remember, Ben ? Up beyond 
the bridge. Such nice new-looking houses, none of 
them old nasty whitewash and thatch things they 


THE LEGACY 


285 


had there before ; they’re all gone, and these are 
nice semis — yellow brick, you know, with pretty 
carved porticoes — ever so nice, they are. I should 
be rare and happy, Ben, if we could be there ; so 
would your father, I’m sure. That do seem so nice, 
to be in the new part, with the new houses all round. 
I shall be proper glad when we can move in, Ben. 
So you’ve got to get well quick.” Her eyes were on 
his face, with their queer mingling of joy in him and 
care for him and hope and pride for herself and the 
new yellow semi. She thought he looked alarmingly 
pale — paler than when she had first arrived. 

He said nothing. He seemed to stumble after 
words, but sighed and renounced them, and sat very 
still, leaning back against a tree- trunk, an unfinished 
piece of bread and cheese beside him. When she 
paused, and waited for him to speak, he still could 
not, and it was Betty who said, “ Yes, he must g-get 
well quick.” 

And Tommy, getting up, said, “ Will you come and 
look at our burnt house, Louie ? It’s awfully 
interesting inside.” 

She gave him the indulgent, kind humouring she 
always gave the young, and they went off together. 

Benjie sat still, and frowned boyishly over his 
over-hung blue eyes, that seemed to look along a 
road and find something barring it where he had 
thought the way was clear. 

Betty cleared away the dinner things. 

“ Still,” said Benjie, looking at her at last, “ I 
don’t quite understand. Can you explain it to me ? ” 


286 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Benjie always wanted things explained, and the 
Crevequers could never explain them ; that was 
awkward. Betty shook her head, giving it up. 
What did he want explained ? It was so easy, so 
obvious. You may demand of an infant why it 
cries when it wants nourishment ; but you will not 
induce it to explain, because it does not know any 
more than that such is the way of life. 

But Benjie, who wanted all things on a reasoned 
basis, said “ Why ? ” and said further, frowningly 
struggling with thought, " I thought that there were 
no principles — none at all. No, I didn’t; I thought 
the only one was that happiness counts. Why, then, 
can’t I take the way to it ? Oh, but I don’t under- 
stand. Do you ? ” 

The gate he had run up against had bruised and 
hurt him ; he was like an injured, bewildered child. 

“ Isn't it happiness that counts, after all ? ” he 
said, appealing to her who had taught him that it 
was. 

She tried, leaving the plates alone, to enter into 
it, to rise to his plane, where one argued and reasoned 
and came to conclusions. The effort funnily knitted 
her black brows over her pondering eyes ; the Creve- 
quers were not used to thought. But Betty des- 
perately wanted to comfort Benjie, to drive that look 
out of his bewildered eyes. 

“ That’s j-just it,” she assented at length, not 
finding much comfort available. “ Happiness does 
count, so awfully much. . . . Hers, you know. She 
wants you.” 


THE LEGACY 


287 


“ Oh ... I see.” What he saw was a great 
question-mark, overspreading the universe. Happi- 
ness counts. But whose ? That is the immense, the 
far-reaching root question, the answer to which 
decides the issues of the world. Whose ? Yours 
or mine ? 

Benjie saw it as a dilemma which admitted of no 
compromise whatsoever. He put it to her, baldly, 
in his bitterness. “ Whose happiness, then ? One’s 
own, or some other ? ” 

But she could not tell him that ; she could not 
for a moment face that basic question ; the Creve- 
quers never resolved the universe into first principles ; 
they accepted it ready-made. Only one thing Betty 
knew, and that not from principle but from intuitive 
experience. 

" One’s g-got to be pleasant, I suppose.” 

That summed such altruistic philosophy as she 
had ; and that was the barred gate. 

Benjie accepted it, seeing clearly at last. 

“ It seems,” he said, “ that one has.” 

After that no more was said between them for a 
time. Betty washed up, and put the things away 
in the van. When she had finished that, she came 
and sat on the ground at Benjie’s side. 

He looked round at her, and she knew by his face 
that he was no longer battering and bruising himself 
against the barred gate ; he had turned back from 
it and was retracing his steps. Where his own road 
had led him long since, the Crevequers’ road was 
leading him now ; since nowhere one could escape 


288 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


from principles, one must , accept and make the best 
of them. 

“ Will you have Richard and the van ? ” he said, 
in his normal, matter-of-fact manner. “ I shall be 
living in a semi-detached villa at Wattles, you see. 
I shall have no further use for the van ; it would 
only be a nuisance to me. I shall be glad if you will 
take it and use it for as long as you feel inclined — 
till something else turns up, you know.” 

Betty nodded, with wet eyes, and accepted. " One 
always accepts ” might have been the second Creve- 
quer principle. People, circumstances, poverty, 
wealth, friendships, religion, vans — nothing was 
rejected. 

“ Thank you ; we would love to have it. . . . 
We want to go back to Italy, you know, when we 
can afford to ; but till then we can peddle splendidly 
in this. Brooms, saucepans, chairs, k-kettles. ...” 

It was wiser, perhaps, not to dwell on kettles. 
For a moment the vision of that unspeakable medley 
of purchasable objects shone before Benjie’s eyes 
sun-lit ; he smelt the dust on the road at evening and 
the hawthorn in the hedge at noon and the odour of 
frying bacon ; he heard laughter and the song of birds. 

Then between him and the vision rose a semi- 
detached villa of yellow brick, with a carved portico, 
ever so nice. 

“ One’s got to be pleasant, I suppose,” he mut- 
tered, clinging to that raft in a submerging sea, that 
word which explained this dark and chaotic riddle 
we call life. 


THE LEGACY 


289 


“ Oh,” stammered Betty suddenly, unsteadily, 
pleading against his pain-darkened eyes, his set lips, 
“ Oh, let’s all have g-good times. . . . We can 
have good times, always. ...” 

Even in yellow brick semis, ever so nice ; even 
with a wife we have married on principle and a 
father with whom we have little acquaintance and 
desire less. 

Benjie looked at Betty, and his lips relaxed into 
a faint, queer smile. “I believe you can, always,” 
he slowly answered her. 

“You can. You can. . . .” She caught his 
unhurt left hand in her thin child’s fingers. “ Oh, 
you can, and you must, and you w-will. You’ll 
have a good time, and you’ll give them a good time.” 

“ That,” admitted Benjie, “ being manifestly the 
business of life, I suppose one must try to carry it 
through as well as may be. And you too will have a 
good time, I think ? So there we all are, as if the 
millennium had come upon us. One’s got, no doubt, 
to be happy as well as pleasant.” 

She still held his hand, and her eyes pleaded for 
happiness, the thing that counted. 

“You will ? ” she said, as if she would have his 
promise. “ Oh, it’s so easy. It’s all so jolly, so — 
so frightfully nice and funny. You can’t not have 
a good time, hardly. But you will ? ” 

Since he would have given her anything she had 
asked of him, he gave her that, and it was much. 

“ Yes,” he said. “ I will.” 

Louie and Tommy came back from the house. 

u 


290 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Louie said, “ That do seem proper queer. Mother’ll 
be rare and pleased when I tell her. But isn’t it a 
shame, your beautiful house, and the furniture and 
all ? It were fair shocking, weren’t it ? . . . There 
were a gentleman at Wattles had a fire ; it started 
with a spark from a train flying on to his thatch — 
he were keeper of the crossing, Ben, you know — and 
it were burnt up ; but it weren't a big house like 
yours, though they say it were fair dreadful to 
see the flames go up. I missed that, through being 
at my aunt’s at Clacton, but mother, she got a good 
sight, and she say it were a treat to see. Mother’s 
rare and fond of a fire now and then. I don’t like 
them, they’re that destructive. But folks that have 
that nasty thatch to their roofs haven’t no one but 
themselves to thank. Them nice semis, Ben, has 
slate, of course.” 

“ Of course,” said Benjie, cheerfully. " They 
would have. Now I’m going to collect a few things 
out of the van to take with us. Not many ; I shall 
leave them mostly for you two, if you don’t mind. 
Oh, Tommy, Betty says you’ll do me the kindness 
of taking over Richard and the old cart ; I must 
get rid of them, you see. I only want the books out 
of it, and a few more things. When we’ve packed 
them we’ll go to Wattles by the 4.47 train, Louie. 
Will that do ? ” 

Her smile answered him. 

Before they caught the 4.47 train, they all had 
tea together. Louie shook her head over the ram- 
shackle arrangements. Poor Ben ; no wonder he 


THE LEGACY 


291 

looked ill ; but never mind, in the new semi he 
should always have a nice tea at a table. 

“You must come and see us,” she said to the Creve- 
quers. She was pleased that Ben had made friends 
at last with these two, who always seemed so nice 
and pleasant-like, if rather lacking wisdom. Ben 
had had, in old days, such a queer feeling against 
them. A moment’s pause followed her invitation ; 
Benjie did not endorse it ; apparently some remnant 
of the queer feeling still lingered. 

“ But you won’t be in England long, shall you ? ” 
was what he said when he did speak. 

Betty said, “ No. We shall save up and get back 
to Italy when we can. It doesn’t cost much, really. 
And it’s so much cheaper living there ; we should 
have gone back ages ago if it hadn’t been for the 
house and money.” A little sigh was given to 
departed glories. 

Louie said, “ Home’s the best, though ; better 
nor any foreign countries. You’ll never settle down 
abroad ? ” 

“ ’Tisn’t abroad, you see,” Tommy explained. 
“ But I don’t suppose we shall settle down any- 
where. We can’t afford to. Settling down needs 
money. Perhaps some day someone else will die 
and leave us a house and fortune ; if they do, we’ll 
settle down again, and have nothing but electric 
light and heat radiators, so that Betty can’t drop 
matches about. Till then we must wander homeless. 
Oh, we have a house, you know, in Italy, a very nice 
one, but we’ve no money to live in it, so we let it.” 

u 2 


292 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ Dear me, who’d ever have thought that now,” 
Louie murmured, and the Crevequers looked rather 
hurt. 

“ Why shouldn't people think we have a house? 
We had two the day before yesterday. And now we 
have a van, so that really makes two again. It’s 
awfully good of you, Benjie, to give us your van.” 

“ He won’t never want it again,” Louie said for 
him, “ now as we’re going to live in that nice little 
house. Shall you, Ben ? ” 

“ No,” said Benjie. “ I shan’t never want it 
again.” 

Peace dwelt in Louie’s patient eyes, illumining 
them. She was coming into her kingdom, and saw 
it shining there, a settled, unshifting heaven beneath 
a slate roof. To settle down in the new semi and 
" do for ” her Ben, who after all came only of poor 
folk, the same as herself — perhaps sometime to 
have another little John to do for — what had heaven 
to offer more than that ? 

She got up, and brushed the crumbs from her lap. 

“ I reckon we ought to be going for that train, 
Ben.” 

They said good-bye there, in the garden, before 
the burnt house. They pressed on Benjie the spotted 
guinea-pig, his namesake. He had refused it long 
ago ; but he accepted it now. Perhaps to accept 
was another of the new things he had learnt. 

They said no word of meeting again. Perhaps 
they all knew that that was done with, that the roads 
must part here. 


THE LEGACY 


293 


They went out of his life, leaving behind them a 
foolish spotted guinea-pig and the echo of laughter, 
and one absurd rag of a principle that he had hence- 
forth to live by in a chaotic world, having had all 
others burnt from him by fire. 

What he would make of the ridiculous world he 
could not tell. Nothing much, probably. What they 
would make of it he knew — a ramshackle comedy 
bordering on farce. 

They had at least taught him that life is not a 
solemn thing. Pathetic, yes, tragic often, squalid, 
splendid, crazy, jolly, lit with dreams and laughter, 
an immense joke and a black grief — but solemn never. 
Benjie, the solemn little boy, had grown up at last 
and put away his childhood’s gravity — and Louie 
should have wax flowers if she liked, yes, and anti- 
macassars too, and his father should do no stroke 
of work, but smoke and drink and loaf and talk, 
because happiness counted so awfully much. . . . 

That was their legacy, with the foolish guinea-pig. 
So they went out of one another’s lives. 


CHAPTER XVII 

DAISYVILLE 

On a Sunday in June of the following year, Cecil and 
Jerry Bunter, having done with their triposes and 
being tired of May week, which had just run its 
glorious race, bicycled out to Wattles to see the 
Pritties. The Pritties lived in a region of Wattles 
that roughly jarred one’s aesthetic sense, if one had 
any — the new growth of white-brick, slate-roofed 
little villas that stood in a semi-detached row and 
genteelly called itself Virginia Terrace, having once, 
before the mushroom growth, been Pond Lane, 
There was little pleasure to be derived from visits 
to this vulgar haunt of would-be gentility ; no 
element of the picturesque was to be found there ; 
its commonness, its cheap little pretentious ugliness, 
made Cecil positively sick, and Jerry could have no 
concern with it. He didn’t get angry with vulgarity 
like Cecil ; he merely felt it a remote, irrelevant 
thing, and nothing to do with him. Since Benjie 
lived in the middle of it, Jerry followed him there, 
being very fond of him, but bestowed no attention 
on his environment. There is, of course, much 

294 


DAISYVILLE 


295 


vulgarity, much ugliness, on the face of this varied 
earth ; really, life is not long enough to bother about 
it, as Cecil did, as Benjie had once been used to do 
before what Cecil called his perversion. Nowadays, 
Benjie didn’t seem to bother about anything much ; 
he took life nearly as easily as Jerry himself. 

He was digging in his patch of garden when Cecil 
and Jerry leant their bicycles outside his gate and 
came in. He was in his shirt-sleeves, but a black 
coat hung on the fence by him. They already knew 
that Benjie wore a black coat on Sundays now ; it 
was one of those deplorable emblems of smug 
Philistine respectability that were so at variance 
with all his past career. When Cecil had used these 
words to him, he had merely said, “ Louie likes me 
to, it seems. I don’t know why, but she has a feeling 
about it, so I do it. It doesn’t matter particularly 
what colour one’s coat is, does it ? ” 

No, of course not — but it “ stood for ” so much 
besides ; a whole army of Philistines in black coats 
thinking it wrong to do things on Sunday were 
waiting, ready to absorb him, Cecil conveyed. 

“ I don't think,” said Benjie, " that it ‘ stands 
for ’ anything. It’s merely a colour. Ugly, of 
course — but if Louie likes it . . 

“ Perhaps,” Cecil had accused him, “ you don't 
dig and carpenter on Sundays now.” For to her 
mind one thing went along with another, and she 
was ready to suspect him of any obliquities. 

He answered her tranquilly. “Yes, I dig or 
anything else on any day of the week, if I want to. 


296 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Why not ? One's coat doesn't affect one's actions. 
One thing has nothing whatever to do with another, 
in that way. Why do you want to make the whole 
world divide into camps ? " 

Cecil had said it was already so divided ; one had 
only to choose one's camp. For her part she had 
selected the Bohemian camp. If Benjie was to go 
over to the Philistines, it would be a betrayal of 
Truth. 

Benjie had said, “ There are no camps. And if 
I like to wear a black coat, and a top hat, and garden 
in them all Sunday morning, which am I in ? " 

“ You'd be merely incoherent," Cecil had told 
him, “ and you can’t be anything much worse." 

“ I am incoherent," he had returned, placidly. 
“ And when you are my age, you will be incoherent 
too. The strain after a studied coherence is the bane 
of the very young. The universe is not coherent, 
according to my knowledge of it ; it is a series of 
unrelated episodes. A most surprising place, I 
admit — but surprise is always interesting. You are 
a monist ; you want to reduce it all to a single 
basis. You think there is a Truth. I happen to be 
a pluralist. There we differ, you see." 

More and more since then Cecil had been dis- 
covering how deplorably they differed. It was 
tragical to see Benjie so dropping down the ladder 
rung by rung. Respectable vulgarity marked this 
house, within and without. Respectable vulgarity 
and hopeless incoherence ; for, side by side with the 
things Louie liked, there were some of the things 


DAISYVILLE 


297 


Benjie liked ; only a few, because Louie didn’t care 
about them filling up room. He accepted her 
Coronation portraits as pictures for the walls, side 
by side with his drawings and prints and Japanese 
paintings and her beautiful young ladies from Christ- 
mas Illustrateds. A catholic, incongruous, incoherent 
scheme of adornment, not worthy to be called a 
scheme at all, but merely a jumble exhibition. 

On this Sunday afternoon there was a family 
party at Daisyville (the name had been selected by 
Louie, painted on the gate by Benjie, and was used 
only by the household, as everyone else knew it was 
13, Virginia Terrace, only as Louie said, you can’t 
live easy in a 13). When Cecil and Jerry arrived, 
they found Benjie, as has been said, digging in the 
front, his father sailing boats in the tub at the back, 
Louie setting tea in the parlour for all of them, 
Stanley Wilfred (Louie’s turn to choose the name 
this time) doing whatever one does do at the age of 
six months in his pram by the door, Dot, the cripple 
(again domiciled with her sister and brother-in-law), 
sitting by her nephew and conversing with him, and 
Mr. and Mrs. Robinson watching Louie get the tea. 
Mrs. Robinson wore black. Harry, poor youth, had 
died of consumption a year ago — the most fortunate 
episode in his career. Killed, as Cecil remarked, by 
the criminal selfishness of the economic system 
for which we, the upper classes, are responsible. 
What do we care for the miserable units, the Harry 
Robinsons of the world ? We go over them with 
our Juggernaut wheels and leave them crushed and 


298 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


mangled, and happy for them if death takes them 
out of their misery. “ Very true,” said Benjie, 
agreeing. 

So they all had tea when it was ready. Not in 
the garden, as Benjie had dreamt long since, because 
Louie thought meals should be in houses, and wasn't 
going to have them nasty sniggering Wilkinsons 
next door overlooking their tea-table and hearing 
their talk. Besides, the insects ! In short, gardens 
are gardens and parlours are parlours, and there is 
a place for everything and everything in its place, and 
the place for tea is the parlour. So in the parlour 
they all sat down to a well-spread board — tea and 
cake and bread and butter and honey (Mr. Prittie 
kept bees) and three eggs, one for Benjie 's father 
and one for Louie’s and one for Dot (they kept 
four hens), and ham for the rest. 

They talked, of course, of the Coronation, because 
there was just going to be one. Jerry said, “ Oh, 
is that this month ? Well, I shan’t mind, because 
I shall be in Devonshire, and I needn’t see papers.” 
Jerry had a serene detachment from the vanities 
of this world that a Thomas a Kempis might have 
envied. 

Louie said, “ They say the motor ’bus will run 
up to town that day, leaving Wattles at 4 in the 
morning, and it’ll cost 5s. 6d. return. That’ll be a 
rare treat for some.” 

Cecil said, “ Imagine wanting to see the horrid 
thing ! ” 

Mrs. Robinson, who took a catastrophic view of 


DAISYVILLE 


299 

life, said, “ I suppose there’ll be a many killed that 
day.” 

Mr. Prittie said, “ The Naval Review’ll be the 
thing. That’d be the sight to take the little chap 
to, Louie. Make a sailor of him, it would.” 

Benjie said, “ Do you want to go up in the ’bus, 
Louie ? ” and her eyes shone with pleasure. 

” That’d be a rare sight for baby to say he’d 
seen, wouldn’t it ? We don’t get a Coronation every 
year, do we,” and Cecil shuddered at that thought. 

“ They do say,” said Mrs. Robinson, “ ’as how 
the King ain’t got so long to live, likely. We’ll 
perhaps be ’avin’ another within the five years.” 

Cecil said it was to be hoped that the institution 
of monarchy had not so long a course as that to run. 
A democratic republic was on its way, and this sort 
of vulgar pageantry was doing its best to precipitate 
its advent. 

Dot said, “ Why, Louie, you’d never go up to 
Lundon, Coronation Day ! You’d miss the sports 
an’ the meat tea.” 

Louie said, “ Well, I don’t mind particular either 
way ; it’s baby I’m thinking of. It’d be something 
for him to say, later, as how he’d seen the pro- 
cession. Baby wouldn’t enjoy the tea and the sports, 
he ain’t big enough, the mite.” 

“ It’ll be a ’andsome percession,” Mr. Robinson 
murmured. “ Something wunnerful to see, they 
say.” 

“ They say as ’ow the Queen can’t ’ardly dror ’er 
breath, ’er clothes is that ’eavy,” said Mrs. Robinson. 


300 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


“ An’ laced ! I expect they is laced in, them ladies. 
'Ave to be, you know, for the look of it. But it won't 
be a wonder if some o’ 'em don't live through the 
day, in this weather an’ all. Reg’lar Coronation 
weather, they calls it ; but I'm sure if I was the King 
an’ Queen I’d as soon 'ave it a mite cooler. The 
people in the streets’ll be dyin’ like flies, I shouldn’t 
wonder, them as ain’t crushed by the press.” 

“ You feel the 'eat, mother, bein’ so stout,” said 
her husband, jocosely. This was a favourite joke, 
Mrs. Robinson having, as he often told her, no flesh 
to her bones. 

“ I could fancy the ’bus-ride,” said Louie, who had 
been thinking it over. “ It’d be a fine treat if we was 
to go up. You’d come too, wouldn’t you, Ben ? 
I wouldn’t go without you came too.” 

" Rather,” said Benjie. “ We’ll all go.” 

Cecil ate bread and honey in silent aloofness. 
This degradation of Benjie was too painful for 
remonstrance. 

“ There’s a many goin’ in the 'bus from Wattles,” 
said Mrs. Robinson. “ That’d be a rare treat, to be 
sure.” 

“ We’ll all come,” said Benjie again. “ You, too, 
father. You’d enjoy it, you know, much more than 
the tea here, and we shouldn’t have half a time 
without you.” (Mr. Prittie smiled the smile he 
kept for his son.) ” Let me see,” went on Benjie, 
“You, me, Louie, Baby, Mr. Robinson, Mrs. 
Robinson — and Dot wants to stay here, I gather 
— that makes five.” 


DAISYVILLE 


301 


Mr. Robinson said, “ Have you the money, lad ? " 
It was understood that Benjie paid all expenses 
when they went anywhere together ; he always did. 
Benjie said he had the money. 

Mrs. Robinson said, “ ’Oo can say as ’ow that 'bus 
will ever get there ? There's many a haccident 
'appens to 'buses, particular when full." As the 
reflection appeared to give her pleasure, no one 
disturbed her in it. 

Cecil, tired of the 'bus, said, “ Of course Uncle 
Mervyn is staying in town for what he calls our great 
Imperial Festival. They've got a front stall some- 
where or other. They asked if I'd like to go with 
them." 

“ You’ll get a proper fine view that way," said 
Mr. Robinson, annoying Cecil, because obviously 
he couldn't have been listening to her previous 
references to the ceremony. 

“ I suppose I should, if I'd accepted," she said, 
and Mr. Robinson didn’t apparently listen to that 
either, for he repeated, “ A proper fine view that’ll 
be." 

Jerry said, “ Will you come to ‘ The Play-Boy 
of the Western World ' to-morrow night, Benjie ? " 

Benjie didn’t think he could ; he was going out 
to supper and a whist drive with his father. 

“ * Harvest ' is better than the ‘ Play-Boy,' " said 
Cecil. 

Jerry said he didn’t think “ Harvest " was good at 
all, but a sermon wrapped up in melodrama. Would 
Benjie come to “ Riders of the Sea " on Tuesday, 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


302 

then ? But on Tuesday Benjie was going to see a 
magic lantern, with Louie. 

Jerry sighed a little, and gave it up. Benjie was 
very much held by domestic ties in these days ; one 
could hardly ever get hold of him. When he wasn’t 
working in his carpenter’s shop, he was going off 
to some repulsive entertainment, or merely lounging 
about and smoking (he had taken to smoking lately) 
with his father. Jerry liked Benjie’s father, an idle 
but amusing person of pleasant manners, who got 
rather tipsy sometimes, which was revolting, but 
at other times could be an entertaining companion. 
His affection for Benjie, and Benjie’s for him, no 
doubt made their life together agreeable, but was 
rather a drag upon Benjie. That was a pity, for 
Benjie, since he had lost his deplorable missionary 
tendencies and had become content to take the world 
as he found it, was a more congruous companion for 
Jerry than he had ever been before, in spite of the 
extraordinary pictures and other articles of adorn- 
ment that he allowed to deface his house, and in spite 
of his thinking it would be a pleasant plan to go up 
to the Coronation in the motor ’bus. For all these 
things were to Jerry (a person of essentials) irrele- 
vancies ; they did not touch Benjie the man. Long 
ago Anne Vickery had said, comparing Jerry and 
Cecil, “ He has a truthful imagination, and sees 
straight. Poets and artists do.” 

Jerry produced a thin green book out of the pocket 
of his blazer and gave it to Benjie. 

" My book,” he said. " It’s pretty good in parts. 


DAISYVILLE 


303 


The rest is poor, because I had to fill in, to make it 
fat enough. There’s one thing of Cecil’s in it. You’ll 
know it when you come to it — in fact, I think it’s 
signed.” 

Mrs. Robinson said, “ Fancy you writin’ a book, 
now, Mr. Jerry ! An’ you so busy at your schooling, 
too . . . They say as none of them writers enjoys 
good ’ealth, pore things.” 

“ Jerry’s enjoyed a pretty good tea, anyhow,” 
said Cecil. ” My thing’s about our time in the van 
two years ago, Benjie. I’ve called it ‘ Marshlands.’ ” 
I wrote it one day down on that marshy bit by the 
sea — a soft sort of whitey-grey day it was, with 
quiet waves, and gleams of light — do you remember?” 

“ Not particularly,” said Benjie. “ I remember 
several days rather that colour.” Then he looked 
at Louie, and saw that her eyes were passing from 
Cecil to him, with their old look of wistful doubt. 
Her parents, too, were looking at Cecil with a shocked 
and cold regard. If one has been misguided enough 
to commit indiscretions in the past, one does not 
refer to them unabashed over the tea-table ; in 
respectable circles this is a thing not done. 

“ That young person,” said Mr. Robinson after- 
wards, “ ’as a bold tongue, and oughter be ashamed 
of ’erself.” 

His wife said, " It’s my belief as how she’d like 
to win Ben back to her even yet. But that’s more 
than she’ll do.” 

The poor are coarse like that, as Cecil knew ; the 
more one goes among them, the less one feels able 


304 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


to fathom the depths of their coarseness. There is, 
Cecil believed, nothing that they are ashamed to 
say. Benjie was sorry that Cecil had mentioned 
the van episode in public. It was foolish, this out- 
raging of other people’s taste ; it was time she out- 
grew it. But, because it was also time that the 
Robinsons outgrew their coarseness, he said, turning 
the pages of the book, “ I shall be interested to see 
what you made of that,” and, having found what he 
sought, read it through, in his careful, concentrated 
way. Having finished it, he said, " I think you are 
wrong in your reference to the tide. I don’t think 
it can have been quite as you say, at that hour — 
deducing the hour from your description of the 
state of the light. I must think it out.” He thought 
it out, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the page. 
When Benjie thought a thing out, he gave his whole 
mind and attention to it. So, for the moment, he 
was manifestly living in the memory of an episode 
which should never have been. So, before the 
Robinsons, he asserted his inextinguishable right to 
do so, to have his own opinion on these matters, 
and, by implication, to travel in any van to any 
place with any person in the universe. He no longer 
wanted to convert others to his way of thinking in 
this matter ; but that he refused to be perverted 
by them was obvious. That was one of the incidents 
which went to make up the funny, jumbled in- 
coherence of Benjie and his present way of life. 

Having thought it out, he conclusively proved to 
Cecil that she was wrong by an hour or so. " In 


DAISYVILLE 


305 


other respects/' he added, turning over the pages 
again, “ your description seems to me to be very 
accurate. I am not quite sure that I saw all those 
colours on the sea — but I probably was not inspecting 
it very carefully at the time.” 

Louie was beginning to clear away tea. She did 
not mind Ben’s harking back to the adventure he 
had shared with Miss Cecil, since he was hers now, 
and she was dear to him, and they shared not an 
adventure but Stanley Wilfred, and every sweet, 
tranquil day and quiet night, and they were going 
up to the Coronation together in a motor ’bus. 

“ Let’s come and look at the guinea-pig,” said 
Benjie. “ I think he has eczema or something.” 

So he and Cecil and Jerry and Mr. Prittie and Dot 
and Stanley Wilfred went and looked at the guinea- 
pig, who certainly appeared to have something. 
Guinea-pigs often have, of course. 

When they had made an exhaustive survey of him, 
Cecil and Jerry said they must go home. 

They bicycled back to Cambridge rather silently 
at first. They were a little sad about Benjie. They 
always were when they visited him now. 

Cecil said suddenly, when they had gone a mile 
or so, “ Oh, poor old Benjie. What can we do for 
him ? It’ll all so unutterably beastly, Jerry, isn’t 
it? ” 

There were tears in her eyes. Jerry, who took 
things more tranquilly, said that it couldn’t be 
helped, and that it wasn't worth while to bother. 

But Cecil went on bothering, running over the 


3°6 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


tale of Benjie’s woes, which they both knew by 
heart already. 

“ The awful house ; the dreadful pictures ; the 
blue glass vases, Jerry ; the — the horse-hair sofa 
and its doylies ; those unthinkable old Robinsons 
— and, oh, the Coronation ’Bus ! And Stanley Wilfred, 
all hung over with beads out of crackers, and eating 
bits of cake out of Louie’s mouth. How disgusting ! 
And how bad for him ! They’ll let him grow up a 
horrid, spoilt, vulgar child, that only does the things 
he ’as a mind to. . . . And Mr. Prittie.” 

“ Oh, I like Mr. Prittie,” said Jerry. 

" Well, I daresay. But what does he do to justify 
his existence ? Not a stroke of work from morning 
to night ; he’s merely an amiable, tipsy loafer, of the 
type Benjie used to hate most. And Benjie fools 
about with him and goes to whist-drives, and hasn’t 
time to come with us to the Irish plays. And that 
awful ’bus ! Oh, how unspeakable, Jerry ! What a 
life ! ” 

Jerry shook his head, regretful, but placidly 
philosophic. 

“ It comes of marrying. It seems a pity to marry. 
I shall not do it. One seems to get involved by it 
in so many things.” 

“ Domesticity,” Cecil apostrophised, " is the curse 
of the middle classes. But some marrying is all 
right. Hugh and Anne will have a ripping time 
together, I expect. I suppose, really, one should 
only marry the people one likes a great deal.” 

“ I daresay,” agreed Jerry, who knew little about 


DAISYVILLE 


307 


it. “It certainly seems waste to do it without 
some such feeling, considering how many tiresome 
liabilities it appears to involve.” 

They bicycled for a while in silence along the 
dusty road, and the nightingales began their singing 
in the chestnut trees. 

“ Jerry,” said Cecil, abruptly, “ d’you suppose 
Benjie’s happy ? ” 

Jerry was looking over the buttercup fields, that 
spread, golden in the sun’s long evening light, on 
either side of the dusty road. Beyond them wound 
the little quiet rivers, with the willows, soft and grey, 
to show where they ran. In the long grass cows 
stood knee-deep and munched. Over them the 
cuckoos called their strange June note. Every 
hedge was a spreading glory of pure white. 

It was a lovely, concrete world ; a world of fore- 
grounds ; Jerry knew that ; knew how things were 
more important than the ideas behind them, pheno- 
mena than noumena. One handles and touches and 
tastes each thing as it comes along ; for in the end 
it is the artist’s world, not the philosopher’s ; and 
one approaches it with the gay absorption of those 
who play a game. 

" I think,” replied Jerry, after a moment, " it is 
possible to be happy on extremely little.” He had 
never tried, but he had intuitions. He added 
presently, “ I believe Benjie really has a pretty good 
time. ... I believe he’s learnt how, you see. . . . 
He looked as if he was going to enjoy the Coro- 
nation ’Bus. . . . And, of course, there’s always this.” 


3°8 


VIEWS AND VAGABONDS 


Cecil followed his look over the golden fields, and 
found them inadequate for the soul-needs of a 
civilised human being. She sighed, and left Benjie 
to his fate. 

“ Anyhow,” she said, consoling herself, “ there are 
the Irish plays this week. And to-morrow I shall 
go and hear Alec Potts on G.B.S. in the Guildhall.” 

There was, of course, always that, too. 

“ Life is really quite extraordinarily nice,” said 
Jerry. 


The End 


QAKl EN CITY PRESS LTD., LETCH WORTH, HERTS. 



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